


Last One Standing

by elisi, redjaded (timeheist)



Series: The Redjay [11]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi/pseuds/elisi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeheist/pseuds/redjaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodageitmososa had been many things. Dead had never been one of them. Neither had blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is a trigger warning for rape/non-con on this fic. I would like to point out that this has been tagged not because anything of the sort takes place but just in case the brief worries of one character in chapter 8 triggers anything in anyone. I feel I should err on the side of caution. There is otherwise no other need for this tag.
> 
> This takes place during Roda's 7th regeneration and Alexander's 2th and takes place some time after 'Matrices'. Alexander 'the Seeker' Saxon belongs to elisi.

“Chan – what have we got – ten?"

The street had been cordoned off half an hour ago and anyone local to Malcassairo knew better than to get too close. A few tourists had been turned away; one particularly persistent humanoid in need of a shave and wearing a pinstriped suit had needed a little more coaxing, and DCI Chanten was still certain he was seeing him out of the corner of his eyes. It was probably just paranoia. There had never been very many murders on Malcassairo before. And those that had occurred were usually more hushed up, less messy, and generally not delegated to the police force.

Chanten’s mandibles twitched as he stared down at the chalked-out silhouette on the floor of the liquor store. He smoothed down his antennae, turned up the collar of his uniform, and nodded demurely to his dependable second in command as she straightened up and cleared her throat. Chanten noticed that she was wearing plastic gloves, and clutching a recording device in one blue-green hand. His worried, thoughtful expression softened into one of approval. He knew he’d promoted her for a reason. She’d probably been first on the scene, and he knew if anyone could tell him what they knew so far, it would be Chantol.

“Chan – a humanoid female, possibly middle-aged – tol." Chantol winced, glancing down at the body and covering her mouth with the back of one slightly sticky glove. “Chan – multiple lacerations on the torso and face, some on the arms – tol. Chan – I believe she tried to defend herself – tol.”

Chanten nodded, crouching down in front of the body and resuming Chantol’s original study. He clasped his chin, accepting a pair of gloves when they were handed to him and pulling them on with a snap. He could quite put a finger on it but there was something familiar about the woman lying dead in front of him, eyes wide in shock. He reached out, shutting the lids gently, and thought over what his DI had said. 

The floor was littered with broken glass, and the owner of the store – who would no doubt need to be brought in for questioning – had pointed out that several bottles of expensive alcohol were missing. He was blaming it on a break and entry, attempted theft. It was good, imported wine, he said, several years old. Chanten couldn’t care less. Alcohol could be replaced, but lives could not. Nobody came back from the…

“Chan – cause of death appears to be internal bleeding – tol.” Chanten shook his head, hoping he hadn’t missed anything important in the report he had stopped focusing on. Nobody came back from the dead… except for a select few. “Chan – we could do a biopsy, but - tol...”

“Chan - no need - ten.” Chanten dug into the satchel he’d been taking to work when he’d been called to the crime scene, sorting through the organised mess and eventually holding up a plastic-bound folio between forefinger and thumb. It was dog-eared at the sides, clearly having been read many times, and covered in annotations and edits. Chantol squinted for a closer look, and Chanten made a show of reaching out to place it in her hands. She pulled off and pocketed her gloves before slipping it out of the protective casing. “Chan – I think I know who she is – ten.”

“Chan – who– tol?”

Chanten nodded. “Chan – a Time Lord – ten.”

Chantol gasped despite herself, and Chanten smiled fondly. Still, there was a grim turn to his lips, and his mandibles had turned in, as tense as he was. He licked his lips before continuing, hoping that he was wrong and already knowing from the look on Chantol’s face as she scanned the file that he was right. This case had just got considerably more complicated.

“Chan – I thought they were all dead – tol.”

“Chan – not all of them – ten. Chan – the Shadow Proclamation keeps tabs where they can – ten.” Chanten was hesitant to continue, but Chantol would probably be taking his place one day, when he retired, and it would be her turn to liaison with the dangerous force. Besides, he could trust her to filter out the details when they debriefed the rest of the team (if they ever turned up) – the victim is a criminal from a deceased planet, she would say. They would listen to her. “Chan – they updated their photographic records a few days ago – ten.” He sighed. “Chan – I was sure she looked familiar – ten.”

“Chan – what do we do – tol?"

Chanten looked down at the dead woman at their feet, one of the last of an extinct race. She didn’t quite match her photograph. In the records, her face was painted with splashes of blue paint, apparently stolen from another time and planet than her own. Her hair appeared to be half made of red feathers, but looking down at the corpse there was only a single red feather, the fluke wound over and over in blue thread that wound up to the root of her hair. It too was spotted with scarlet blood and glass shards that settled like snow. Until a few days ago the photos under the Time Lords name had been of a strawberry blond woman with differently coloured eyes and nowhere near as many freckles. The woman on the ground had so many freckles the pattern of her skin matched that of a malmooth in all but colour and carapace.

Wanted criminal, extinct species or not, she was still the victim of a murder. Someone had taken this woman into Mr Chantath’s liquor store, killed her, and disappeared. Chanten’s money was on the shop owner. There were no signs of a break in, the CCTV had reportedly been wiped – he’d asked after it on the way in – and Chantath could very easily claim thousands of credits back on the stolen wine if he had ensured it. And last of all, Chanten had never left a case unsolved in his life. He grit his teeth and clasped Chantol’s shoulder as the medical team appeared in the doorway and the body was swiftly covered up and carried away.

“Chan – our job – ten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, the malmooth are an alien race who were first shown in the episode 'Utopia'. Chantho - the last of her kind, at the end of the universe - stated very clearly to Martha that not saying 'Chan' at the start of every sentence and 'tho' at the end is tantamount to swearing. I'd originally thought that every malmooth used those two 'words', but in the graphic novel 'The Forgotten', a malmooth named Chantir uses 'Chan' and 'tir', leading me to conclude that you use the start and end of your name. And so... that'll explain this and some subsequent chapters, assuming the dialogue form doesn't drive me mad.


	2. Chapter 2

“Right, Redjay! You go left, I’ll go right. We’ll cut him off at the Embassy.”

It had started out as just another day in the life of the Doctor. He had promised to have her back before tea time. Roda hadn’t believed him; as he told his companions, rule one was that the Doctor always lied. Through his teeth, or accidentally with purpose. But the Doctor’s inability to keep time hadn’t been much of a problem for the Redjay, who was quite content to run laps around the universe with a friend so long as he remembered that she did want to be back for tea time one day or another, and that she had a TARDIS of her own. No, the problems had come the second the Doctor had decided they had better split up to catch the child he had accidentally abducted from a slave trader, and accidentally lost in the middle of Malcassairo.

Malcassairo was a big planet, but it was also pretty linear. Most of the cities were small and made up of parallel lines and glassy domes that almost reminded Roda of Gallifrey, and the Conglomeration was only different in that it was home to more than just malmooths and twice as big as all the others. And being home to a great number of different intelligent and lawful species as it was, it was also one of the best places (in the galaxy, at least) to get a hold of the Shadow Proclamation when you had to bring something to their attention. Something Roda tried not to find ironic, given the gloomy fate that the planet would ultimately come to.

The point was that with absolute certainty that the boy – who the Doctor had called Mowgli, but who insisted that his name was in fact Number 8 – could only have run down two streets with no turn offs, it would be easy enough for two (supposedly) adult Time Lords to catch up with him. Or herd him towards someone who could. It went unspoken between them that they’d both rather be the ones to catch the startled boy. Mowgli had been happy enough in the TARDIS; in fact, he’d clung to the Doctor like a koala, delighted with his saviour, which had prompted the Doctor to call in a second pair of hands in the first place. But Malcassairo had proved too clinical, and too much like the slave ship. Enough for Mowgli to think himself betrayed. Roda couldn’t help but blame him for assuming the worst.

Roda’s hair got in her face as she ran, and she paused only to blow a few strands of auburn hair out of her face so she could see where she was going. Her breath was hitched, too, and Roda missed the days where her hair had been short and hadn’t gotten in her face, and she hadn’t lost her breath chasing small children. The Valiant, she decided, had shocked her into mellowing out, and working for Torchwood she didn’t run nearly as much as she used to. She’d have to start going for a jog, or something. The idea of running for the hell of it was not the most pleasant. But if she woke up one morning and found she couldn’t outrun a weevil…

The Time Lady wasn’t looking where she was going when her problems finally started. She’d run past a few startled civilians getting as far as she had, certain that Mowgli must have gone down the Doctor’s street because she hadn’t seen anyone not-blue and not-mandibled for a while. That or he ran damned quickly, which she supposed was likely enough as well. A high, female voice had shouted over her head a few minutes before and making the executive decision that the voice sounded rather like law enforcement’s Roda had decided to keep running. A decision that led her right into a collision.

Roda had learned a long time ago how to turn a fall into another way to stand up, but her manners got the better of her. As she rolled onto her shoulders and sprang to her feet, she turned to help up the malmooth that she had run into and caught her breath in her throat. Coughing and holding his side the malmooth took the proffered hand, oblivious to how pale Roda’s face had gone. She shook her hand free as soon as it was conspicuous to do so, and turned her face away just as the malmooth ran one hand over his antennae, hoping he hadn’t seen her face. He was definitely, Roda had decided when she’d landed on top of him, wearing a uniform, and anyone wearing a uniform might have seen the Shadow Proclamation’s list of wanted criminals. Why had she even agreed to come here…?

“Chan – are you okay – ten?”

Roda swallowed, looked up the street in resignation, and turned back to face the winded policeman… Policemamooth. She’d have to ask the Doctor if he knew what word to use. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m in a hurry, are you going to be ok-“ The malmooth was staring at her with something approaching fear in his eyes. Confused, Roda’s eyes narrowed, her teeth latching briefly onto her bottom lip. “I’m sorry?”

The malmooth – Chanten, Roda supposed his name must be – stared for another few seconds, apparently unaware of how rude he was being. Something seemed to jar him back to his senses however, as Roda released the arm she had used to pull him back to his feet, hackles rising. Her hand traced briefly to the gun holstered against her spine, under her waistcoat, feigning a wince as though she’d bruised herself falling. Chanten shook his head and smiled apologetically, running one hand across his face and laughing disjointedly.

“Chan – I – I am sorry, Ma’am. You reminded me of a corpse I saw this morning – ten.”

Roda had been putting her feet behind her for the last few seconds, turning to run as soon as she realised he had been reminded of someone. But ‘corpse’ froze her in place. The Doctor could wait; he’d probably caught up to Mowgli anyway and would have the matter back in hand with a few well-placed words and a chance to play with the sonic screwdriver. Her eyes widened into bright white saucers, her mouth opening and shutting until Chanten realised he had struck a nerve and wrinkled his nose. Roda hadn’t realised malmooths could blush, though she suspected the purplish tinge that had come to the police officer’s face was probably that.

“Chan – I did not mean to offend – ten. Chan…” The malmooth hesitated, trying to lighten the situation. “Chan – I’m not going to arrest you – ten.”

“Umm…” Roda blinked, rubbing her hands over her face and breathing a sigh of relief to find no traces of woad lingering on her skin from sneaking out to Sherwood Forest a few days ago. “That’s good to know. Ah… Did you say I reminded you of a corpse?”

“Chan – yes – ten.”

“I… Alright.” Roda blinked again, looking over her shoulder. “Whose corpse?” She tried at a joke. The only person who would have appreciated it happened to be miles away in twenty first Cardiff. “Should I be flattered?”

The malmooth flushed again. “Chan – probably not – ten. Chan – unless you like that sort of thing – ten.” Having answered he seemed, if it was possible, even more mortified. Roda tried not to snigger. At least he wasn’t trying to handcuff or shoot her. “Chan – we were about to apprehend a renegade Time Lady a few days ago when her body was found in a local shop – ten. Chan – named after an Earth bird – ten.” Roda wondered how she had forgotten how annoying malmooth speak could get if you weren’t used to it. “Chan – the owner has been apprehended for questioning – ten.” The malmooth made an awkward noise, gathering his wits and realising he was discussing a case with a civilian, and a tourist at that. “Chan – it’s nothing important, I’ve just been working too hard – ten.”

“Probably…” Roda tried to frown sympathetically, glancing at her bare wrist and then back up the street. Chanten took the hint.

“Chan – I will not keep you any longer, Ma’am – ten.”

Roda wasted no time in nodding, promising not to run into any more cops, and jogging down the street again, breaking into a run as soon as she was out of sight. She stored the information aside for now, in a large mental box of things that made no sense but were probably rather serious. Scanning the horizon for the roof of the Embassy building as impatience beat down worry she picked up her pace, relieved to find the Doctor holding Mowgli out in front of him at the full length of his arms and looking absolutely horrified.

Roda had to cover her mouth to stop from laughing. The Doctor had probably though himself good with children after helping with the Seeker, but Time Tots were the worst indicator of a ‘proper child’ that ever existed. Roda’s face split into a grin as the receptionist at the front door of the Interplanetary Embassy stuck her head out of the front door to see what all the fuss was about. She took the wriggling bundle from his hands and let the young boy wrap his legs around her waist and try to climb her like a tree as the Doctor sighed with relief and waggled an impatient finger in her face. Thankfully, he seemed to put down her breathlessness to just that. Breathlessness.

“And where have you been?”

Roda stuck around long enough to deposit Mowgli into the hands of ‘trained child psychologists’ and ‘legal representatives’ before making her excuses and looking for somewhere to hide out until the Doctor was ready to give her a lift home where she wouldn’t eventually be recognized. One ankle wrapped around the other and a startlingly red, somewhat pulsing drink in one hand, Roda held a mobile phone that she still hadn’t quite gotten used to using under her ear and waited for the other end of the line to pick up. A few seconds seemed to last a lifetime.

“Jack Harkness’ phone. How may I-“

“Ianto.” Roda sighed with relief, paused, and then blushed a brighter colour than the alcohol in front of her. Ianto covered the phone, and Roda could hear him letting Jack know who was calling in muffled tones. He seemed to be panting slightly. She blew out the flame on top of her cocktail and raised it to her lips with a smirk. “Am I interrupting anything?”

There was a rustle at the other end of the line, and Jack’s voice, silky and clearly content, broke across the line. “A few seconds earlier and you would’ve owed me an or-.”

Roda was quick to interrupt. “I would say I’m sorry…”

Jack chuckled. The bed creaked in the distance and Roda took a quick sip of her drink. “What’s up? You okay? The Doc?”

“Putting a four year old near-human named after a Rudyard Kipling book up for adoption.” Jack spluttered. Roda ignored him. “He’ll be a couple of hours. How’s your schedule?”

“I don’t know. I might be a little tired still.”

Roda rolled her eyes. “I need to ask you a favour.”

“Anything.” Jack’s voice was suddenly serious. Roda took a deep breath.

“What do you know about chameleon arches?”


	3. Chapter 3

Jack had stated – no less than three times – that he wasn’t sure about her plan. Just for the record. For the most part, Roda agreed with him.

Roda’s TARDIS was an older model than the Doctor’s, though as far as she was concerned, just as functional. The console room was perpetually a glow of reds and oranges, as was Roda’s bedroom. Other rooms – like on the Doctor’s TARDIS – remained stationary for treasured friends while most of the other rooms provided convenience (a Zero Room, a workshop…) or comfort (the library being Roda’s favourite). Just about as hodge-podge as the Doctor’s current TARDIS too, what with repairs and upgrades coming from any other planet than Gallifrey. Roda had had many years to be glad she’d paid attention in Biomechanics 101. And having never had need of it before, the chameleon arch had been difficult to find.

Though modified and upgraded as she’d gone along, the type-30 had been designed without renegades in mind, meaning that such frowned-upon pieces of technology were installed, yes, but inconveniently and only because elitist collectors, Roda remembered, had thrown up a fuss when there’d been plans to discontinue them in the public sector. In the end Jack had found a button which, given how high up on the console it was, she suspected he had found while stealing a look at her backside, and the system had fallen down from the roof with a clatter and groan of metal and never before used wiring. It bounced for a few seconds, swinging lightly, before coming to an ominous stop.

The TARDIS hummed undecidedly and Roda stroked the console, staring at the chameleon arch with unabashed, undiminished curiosity. She had learned how they worked in the Prydonian Academy, but no one had ever told her it looked like an even more uncomfortable version of the Castellan’s hat. Or on closer inspection, one of those things humans had invented for massaging their heads. The helmet turned out to be a perfect fit, which surprised Roda until Jack pointed out that unlike the Doctor, she hadn’t stolen her TARDIS and it had been grown specifically for her primatur. Jack’s knowledge of TARDIS jargon had surprised her as well, until he’d pointed out that he knew all four of the universe’s surviving Time Lords and all four of them were fond of their own voice. Roda smacked him over the head and rested the unnerving piece of machinery on the edge of the console, folding her arms and looking down at it.

“I’m sure it’s not going to bite.” Roda raised an eyebrow. Jack shrugged through forced nonchalance, winking. “If that bothers you, biting could be arranged.”

“It doesn’t look entirely…” Roda waved a hand indiscriminately.

“Safe?”

“Functional.” Roda reached into the compartment that the headpiece had fallen out of, standing on the captain’s chair to grope around for some sort of manual. She half expected to find a piece of paper reading ‘got ya’. Her fingers ghosted over a small leather-bound book just as dusty as the chameleon arch had been and Jack took advantage of her precarious perch on the chair to grab her by the waist and help her down. Roda didn’t have it in her heart to tell him off. “Don’t know what I was expecting.”

“I thought you knew how it worked.” Jack prodded one ear-like bulb on the top cautiously.

“I do.” Roda opened the instructions manual, “In theory that I last studied a millennium ago.” She slumped into her chair and rested her feet in Jack’s lap as he took the accompanying seat. “But it’s the best idea I’ve got.”

“You’ll excuse me,” Jack grabbed hold of Roda’s ankles, forcing her to meet his eye over the spine of the red and gold book, If I don’t see the genius in turning yourself into another species and forgetting who you are just because you have a hunch.”

Roda looked at him curiously, and lifted the book back in front of her face, licking her thumb to turn the page. A few seconds later, speed-reading, she did the same again. “If you don’t like it I can do this on my own.”

Jack’s brow furrowed and his grip on Roda’s ankles tightened. “If you even think about it, I will throw you into a cell beside Janet. Don’t forget, I’m your boss now.”

“You’re Rhona Dale’s boss.” Roda corrected Jack with a scowl, opening the book to a detailed schematic of what went where and what should be pressed when. 

“Are we going to argue about this?”

“I don’t know.” Roda placed the book on the console between them, wriggling her legs free of the near-human. “Are we?” There was a long pause where the two friends studied each other, Jack clearly looking for a reason to talk Roda out of what she planned to do and Roda looking for a way to convince Jack the plan would work without resorting to ‘I’ve done stupider things in my lives’. Jack leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, legs wide and Roda finally gave in and ran a hand through her hair, returning to her book. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. “And…?”

“And if you’re that eager to be on top you can just be patient.” Roda smirked, sticking out her tongue. She licked her thumb once more and flicked through a few pages of technical jargon that probably didn’t matter too much. “This is serious.” Roda frowned, squinting at the small print of concentric Gallifreyan circles before snapping her fingers absently. A bright, orange spotlight illuminated her hands and their laps. “I need a fob watch.” Jack’s eyes narrowed. Roda could hear the cogs turning in his head as the end of the universe came back to him. Professor Yana. Roda had learned everything. She put one hand on his thigh, squeezing. “I’m not mad now, Jack.”

Jack grumbled something along the lines of being mad if you insisted on turning yourself into a blue-skinned insectoid alien with memory loss.

“I’m not mad now,” Roda poked Jack roughly in the ribs and returned to the instruction manual and the last few pages, “And I won’t be when we’re finished.”

Jack caught Roda’s wrist as she poked him, rubbing small circles into slim bones that led to her palm. Roda had long ago gotten used to Jack, and comfortably so. When they’d first met… the second time they’d met – she amended, or the third time, Jack was an example of her most lax timeline-keeping to date – she’d thought him always trying to push a somewhat distracting agenda. Now that she knew him, was so close to him, it was hard to see why she’d thought that. He had two modes – flirting, and not flirting – but they were background noise to a very complicated, very deep man. Which was why she took the hand movements for what they were, and not what they might have been; Jack’s thought process, and a way to calm his temper without Ianto there to help.

“Alright.” When he finally spoke again, Roda opened her eyes, dragging herself out of her thoughts. Whatever she said here and now, she had her reservations about this idea too. If she listened to Jack for long enough she’d probably talk herself out of it, if it weren’t for the chance that her own corpse was lying in a morgue on Malcassairo. “What do you want me to do?”

“Now, or when my mind’s at ease?”

Roda smiled to herself, shutting the leather book and patting it once. A small cloud of dust danced up, causing them both to cough, and Jack to wrinkle his nose. Roda was sure Ianto would have a heart attack if he saw the state of some of her storage spaces; one thousand years accumulated a lot of stuff. Jack looked to be thinking the same thing, but folded his arms over a blue-shirt-and-suspenders ensemble (his coat over the back of his chair), raising an eyebrow.

“Now who’s wasting time?”

“Shut up.” Roda grinned again. “Fine. It’s…” She waved a hand to try and hide her unease as she tentatively picked up the chameleon arch, turning it over and steadily pressing buttons. If she started to question herself now, she’d never go through with it, and for once not looking might be the death of her. If Jack had any idea just what she meant when she said this was serious… He probably had an idea. After all, she’d gone to him, and not told the Doctor. “I’ve never used this before.” She licked her lips, squinting at the controls. “Never thought I would.”

“So what makes this mystery any different?”

Roda very nearly told him. Jack was so casual; it made him more dangerous. More dangerous than his immortality did, so far as Roda was concerned, though she’d known him to be a formidable foe centuries before the Doctor ever met him and immortality had nothing to do with it at all. No, Cardiff couldn’t have a better head of Torchwood. Jack’s heart was in the right place but he also knew to do what had to be done when something went wrong, and what to do to get somebody to talk. Catching herself before she gave him more clues than she already had, Roda watched the rise and fall of the ex-Time Agent’s chest.

“Lives are in danger.”

Jack scowled, brow furrowing with disappointment. There was hurt in his eyes, too, though he tried to hide it. Roda longed to point out that it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him; it was that she trusted him too much to do the heroic thing. His American accent grew broader when he was irritated, too. “Are you going to be any less cryptic?” Roda handed him the chameleon arch and started to root through a heavy, ancient chest stowed under the other side of her red and orange console.

“No.” She bumped her head on the underside of the console returning the box to its place, holding up a small, intricate fob watch-shaped device with intricate patterns and words etched into the centre of a gilded case. When she flicked it open and crossed one ankle over the other to rest against the temporal controls Jack could see the bronze inside, cogs exposed and turning behind a clear glass face. There were words etched into the inside, but Roda shut it again before he could get a closer look. “Right. So. The watch is me. Sor-“

“I know that bit.” Jack laughed as Roda pouted, annoyed at being interrupted. She let the watch drop and swing from a thinly wound chain. “All your memories, your DNA, and that feral sex appeal.”

Roda blinked, cleared her throat, and continued, far too casually. She nodded to the head piece. “…As I was saying, it goes in the slot at the back.”

“Kinky.” Roda spluttered. Jack winked, standing up to cup the watch in his hands. “Told ya, sex appeal.”

“Behave.” Roda ran a hand over her face, laughing. She let the chain slip from her fingers to settle into Jack’s. “Once everything’s in there, I won’t know who I am, or who you are. I won’t even look the same.” Roda wondered why that bit worried her so much. It was just like regenerating, temporarily. She touched the tip of her nose and flexed her ankles. “But if I do this right, I’ll remember that I have to-“

“To?”

Roda had caught herself just in time, again. Jack raised an eyebrow, trying to coax the truth out of her.

“Spoilers.”

“Just what we need.” Jack sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Another River Song.”

“You’d enjoy that.”

“No, you’re right.” He frowned, before grinning broadly. “I would. Damn.”

“The point is,” Roda tried to reel the conversation back to the task at hand. “You can’t follow me.”

That confused Jack into silence. He glanced at the watch, still clasped too-tightly in one palm, then looked Roda right in the eye, honest. “How else do I look after you?”

“Use your imagination, Jack.” Jack’s word choice caused Roda to stumble, rearranging her footing and undoing the top buttons of her waistcoat. Exposing a leather thong around her neck, she pulled back her hair, winding the string with her single feather tied into her hair, against her neck, around her finger unconsciously. Woad and feathers weren’t exactly common place in Torchwood, but she hadn’t been able to let go quite yet. Reminiscing, she let the feather drop, pulling off the necklace and tossing it and the silver key it was slung through to Jack with practiced ease. Before he could say a word she started to unwind the blue string braiding the feather into place. “Consider that yours. To keep. If you need to go anywhere, or if something goes wrong…”

Jack’s voice broke into a higher pitch, shocked. “You’d trust me with that?”

“Alex would.” Roda shrugged. She’d never really had ‘companions’. And if Jack were anyone else, this might have been a less natural advance. “The Doctor trusts you.”

“Most of the time.”

“And I trust you.”

Roda admonished Jack with a stern look, placing the feather gently down to the console. While she had Jack’s attention she started to explain exactly how the chameleon arch worked, as best she had understood it from the manual. Jack hummed and nodded in the right places, asking very few questions, and turned down Roda’s offer of trying it on for size to prove it wasn’t going to electrocute her when she turned it on. Roda made him test the controls until she was sure he knew exactly what he might need to do, and finally watched him slip the fob watch into the right place, biting hard down on her lip.

“The manual didn’t say anything about this bit…”

Jack shot Roda grim smile, squeezing her shoulders and then straightening to attention.

“You know if I stand by and let Torchwood’s very own Time Lord die my bosses are going to kill me, bring me back to life, and kill me again.”

Roda pulled a face. The possessive had always made her uncomfortable, especially when her memories of the Valiant had been returned to her. “Torchwood’s Time Lord?”

“You know what I mean.” Jack winked apologetically. “And I’d probably miss you too.” He paused, tapping his lips. “Probably.”

Roda rolled her eyes behind a cage of suckers and metal protrusions. “Thank you, Jack.”

“Don’t mention it.” Jack grinned, kissing Roda’s forehead before she tightened the helmet properly, and then folded his arms once more, his face suddenly a mask of serious. “So… do you have to get naked for this thing to work?”

“Jack!” Roda laughed, briefly doubling over and holding onto the console for support. This was good. If this went horribly wrong, she wanted her last thoughts to be hilarious, fond memories.

“And how do you look in blue?” Jack continued, refusing to let his resolve be swayed. “Green works for Michael,” Roda refrained from pointing out that Michael had only ever be green and would probably always continue to be green. And that unlike Michael, she wouldn’t have scales. “I once dated…” Roda rolled her eyes, waiting for Jack to get off his tangent. “Alright, alright.” He pulled her into a hug, untangling his arms from wires when he withdrew. After a moment’s thought, he tapped his ankles together, saluting. Roda returned the gesture. “Take care of yourself.”

Roda closed her eyes, groped for the right button on the console, and gave Jack one last grin. If she’d known that she’d be clasping her head and falling to the ground screaming a few seconds later, she wouldn’t have made Jack the promise: “I always do!”


	4. Chapter 4

“Chan – wake up – tol.”

Chantid had been having such a strange dream. In the dream, there was a man – a humanoid – sitting beside her in a strange room lit up in reds and oranges. Her legs were in his lap, but they weren’t in his lap, because they weren’t her legs. The whole dream had been spent stuck in someone else’s body, a short woman, she thought, but she’d only been able to catch the odd glimpse of a reflection in a strange metal contraption sitting on a desk and a watch in the man’s hands. She’d – her body had – sounded anxious, impatient, but also fond, and comfortable. She knew she had to do something, but she didn’t want to do it, and the handsome man in the suspenders knew and wanted the same. And yet she… She…

She couldn’t remember anything else. A blinding light, white pain, the details of the dream fading into two simple facts; a strange, confident man and a gold ticking clock. She lifted her hands to her eyes, running them first over the carapace plates at her temples and then letting her long fingertips massage her eyelids. Chantid yawned, rolling the sleeves of her shirt up over her elbows before noticing that she had fallen asleep over a desk, clinical and empty of any personal effects. The malmooth who had shaken her awake, too, was unfamiliar, but also there, and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks as everything slipped into place.

Falling asleep on her first day on the job! Chantid could barely stand the embarrassment. She’d gotten to Malcassairo early, and she hadn’t known where her new flat was, so she’d just come straight to the station… The receptionist at the desk had been quite helpful, giving her the key the office where she would be working after a quick security desk, and even a blanket. Said blanket, Chantid noticed belatedly, was pooled around the legs of her chair. Her heavy bag bounced against her legs under the table, and her newly-earned A-grade hand-gun against her hip. Running her hands over her face and mandibles once more she shot the stranger standing above her what she hoped was an apologetic, ashamed smile and – scanning the uniform with a sinking dread – hastily scrambled to her feet to salute.

“Chan – Ma’am – tid! Chan – I don’t usually – usually fall asleep on the job – tid!” The taller, strong-looking malmooth saluted stiffly, all protocol, and Chantid waited for her to lower her arm before doing likewise. She was studied up and down, the DI – as her badge said – appraising her with squinted eyes. Realising she hadn’t introduced herself, Chantid clasped her arms behind her back, antennae bobbing nervously. “Chan – my name is Chantid – tid. Chan – the new rookie – tid.”

“Chan – Chantid, of course – tol.” Suspicion seeping into pleasantries, the DI extended one slim hand to shake. Chantid took it with a relieved smile, bowing her head reverently. “Chan – I am DI Chantol – tol. Chan – we were not expecting you so early – tol.”

“Chan – to tell the truth,” Chantid cupped her jaw, stifling another yawn, “I did not mean to be in so early myself – tid.”

“Chan – then why – tol...”

Chantol tipped her head to one side, curious and confused at the same time. All the questions but Chantid on edge, but she couldn’t work out why. Probably the dream, she decided, massaging her temples. Or the headache that she could feel coming on. A pain in her chest, too, like her heart was beating too slow. She would have to quit the habit of falling asleep over tabletops. She smiled, reassuring Chantol that everything was alright with all the awkwardness of an untrained dissembler.

“Chan – I took the late train - tid. Chan – and I couldn’t find my lodgings – tid.” Chantid blushed, glancing over Chantol’s shoulder to the small rectangular window across the room. The sky looked very blue, and bright. Had she slept in? But then, why were she, the DI and the receptionist the only three malmooths there? “Chan – the Conglomeration is much larger than the station back home – tid.”

“Chan – I would think so – tol.” The DI laughed, letting the stern countenance drop for just a second, before holding out one hand expectantly. Chantid could see her cufflinks, scarab-shaped, catch the light as she moved, and felt underdressed in ruffled travel clothes and shoes. “Chan – do you have your papers – tol?”

“Chan – oh, yes – tid!” Chantid clapped her hand to her forehead, dropping to a crouch on the floor to search through her bag of effects. “Chan – sorry - tid.”

It took a few minutes to find the right papers, and Chantid took advantage of the time to calm her nerves and glance around the room at knee-height. It was more pleasant than looking too closely at her bag; every time she thought she’d found the papers her head started to spin and her fingertips ghosted over laminated paper only to lose it again. She could hear the faint tap tap of DI Chantol’s boots atop the floor, her toe pointing firmly at a row of mugs over a snow-white sink every few seconds. Along from that was a door that Chantid surmised led to a bathroom, her guess affirmed as the receptionist soon walked out of the door, proceeding to wash his hands.

As Chantol cleared her throat impatiently Chantid rose, handing over the finally discovered transfer papers – tinted blue slightly, and stamped at the start and finish by the immigration police – and continued studying the room as Chantol, mouthing the words she read, checked their validity. There were two other desks along from the one that Chantid had slept on, and on either side a glass door leading to a larger furnished office; Chantid guessed that one belonged to the DI and the other, larger one their boss. Chantol looked up, clearly finished, and eager to be rid of the second dizzying sheet that had been so hard to find Chantid thrust out another folded piece of paper, arm stiff.

“Chan – there’s this, too – tid.”

Chantol scanned the letter as well before looking at the new recruit with surer, impressed eyes. Chantid shrugged self-deprecatingly, grudgingly accepting the too-smooth sheet of paper back and tucking it into pocket. As she’d folded it back up, she could have sworn that she’d seen circles covering the page instead of the Dean’s clipped, neat handwriting. A trick of the light.

“Chan - you come highly recommended – tol.” Chantol nodded over Chantid’s shoulder, supposedly to another malmooth entering the building. Chantid forced herself not to be nosy and look behind her. She could hear a new male voice mingling with the receptionist’s with clear ease. “Chan – does your station have frequent dealings with the Shadow Proclamation – tid?”

“Chan – no – tid. Chan – I have never met them – tid.” It was true. Her home station was a tiny one, little more than a halfway house for inter-stellar travellers who couldn’t afford to dock in the more expensive space ports. Unlike Malcassairo there had been little shelter from the arid wasteland outsid and before passing the Embassy the night before Chantid had known the capital and the infamous celestial agency who had dealings with it only on paper and in textbooks, studying for her exams. Wonderful though the result would be, Chantid had loathed her education with a passion, but had assiduously memorised every word of teaching all the same. Her mother would have hated for her to give up on her father’s dream. “Chan – but my father was insistent that I amount to something worthwhile – tid.”

“Chan – and who is he – tol?”

“Chan – Chantol, that’s enough questions for now – ten.” A hand clasped around Chantid’s shoulder and she froze with misplaced instinct. “Chan – our new girl must be exhausted – ten.”

“Chan – Yes Sir - tol.” DI Chantol was suddenly a whole different malmooth. Chantid wondered if she had a crush on the newcomer. A smile teased at her lips as she turned to face the DCI (who else would Chantol call ‘Sir’?). She clicked her heels together and raised her jaw, saluting sharp and long while Chantol made excuses just behind her. “Chan – I was just getting to know her – tol.”

“Chan – of course you were – ten.” If Chantol did have a crush, then it was certainly requited. Or maybe the DCI thought of her as a daughter? There was certainly fondness in his put-upon weariness; not that he didn’t look tired anyway, with great grey bags under his eye, old eyes that had seen a lot and hoped not to see more. He addressed Chantid absently with a quick ‘Chan – at ease – ten’ before adding to Chantol: “Chan – I wouldn’t have promoted you if you didn’t ask such good questions - ten. Chan – DCI Chanten – ten.” Another hand was held out for Chantid to shake, and she did so pleasantly. She’d been raised to be polite. The DCI frowned. “Chan – I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name – ten. Chan – your graduation and transfer was very sudden – ten...”

“Chan – Chantid, Sir – tid.” A hand clasped around Chantid’s heart. Why was he suspicious? She’d done nothing wrong, had she? “Chan – I was just very eager to do my job – tid.”

“Chan – of course, of course – ten!” Her hand was mercifully released and a now-fatherly hand patted her on the shoulder reassuringly. “Chan – though you do realise we can’t just send you out on your first day – ten.” He sighed, studying the near-empty room, apparently not expecting more malmooth. “Chan – it’s a little busy this week as you can see, but I’m sure I can find someone to show you around – ten.”

Chantid beamed, pushing her half-unpacked bag back under the table with the heel of her foot. “Chan – thank you – tid.”

“Chan – that’s my job – ten. Chan – you’ll need a uniform too, but that can wait – ten. Chan – and so, I think, will your tour – ten.” Flashing lights appeared around the poor receptionist’s desk, the press jostling each other to try and gain an audience with the chief of police. Chantid could just make out shouts of ‘have you solved the case yet?’ and ‘are you ever going to name the victim?’. Chanten rolled his eyes exasperatedly and Chantol waved a silent goodbye and hurried off to hold back the crowd. Chanten looked towards his office and then back to Chantid, who tried not to look inquisitive. “Chan – I’ll talk to you later – ten.” He put a hand on the small of her back and herded her into his workplace. “Chan – How good are you at filing – ten?”

Chanten returned an hour later, and Chantid was up to her elbows in filing. Which it had turned out she wasn’t all that good at, at all. For the first half hour there had been papers everywhere, less organised than they had been when she’d started, and Chantid had been beginning to wonder what she’d joined the police force for if she was going to be stuck in an office pushing paper when there was clearly some sort of hubbub going on outside. And then half an hour later she’d managed to at least sort the papers into two neat piles, and had found something very interesting to actually explain said hubbub.

There had been a murder. A fairly high-profile one, by her guess. Chantid knew she shouldn’t have peeked but there had been a red stripe across the top of each sheet of paper, and everything had been hand-written instead of typed up. Which was strange, given the fact that everything else was meticulously labelled and detailed whereas this one folder appeared to have been thrown into the pile almost by mistake. The scrawl was all in one person’s handwriting; Chantid recognised it as the DCI’s, signing off on her transfer paper. She opened the folder, nearly dislodging a photograph that had been paperclipped – paperclipped! – to the corner, reading the words inked across the top.

“Chan – the Redjay – tid…?”

“Chan – that doesn’t concern you – ten.”

Chantid jumped, caught red-handed. She blushed, pulling her hand out of the file that her new boss had shut firmly. She clasped her hands in front of her, swallowing, well aware that one mistake wouldn’t lose her this job but also cursing that she’d managed to make one on her first day of the job. But the file was just so… Alluring. She desperately wanted to read more, and she couldn’t shake the feeling, or the urge to just shove DCI Chanten away and open it once more. The Redjay… Why did that ring a bell?

“Chan – but maybe I could help – tid.” She found the words eventually, licking her lips and looking up, hopeful. The DCI shot her an inquisitive look, giving a soft shake of his head. “Chan – a fresh face asking questions might not arouse suspicion – tid.”

“Chan – we haven’t asked many questions – ten.” The shaking of Chanten’s head became more pronounced, and he slipped the folder off the table smoothly, thumbing through the pages as though he thought something might have been stolen. Finding nothing out of place – Chantid hadn’t had enough time to look properly – he sighed deeply, and then absently nodded his approval at the pair of neat files between him and his new recruit. He laughed humourlessly. “Chan – you have no idea how serious this case is, do you – ten?”

Chantid shook her head, eyes lowered. “Chan – I only came to the city last night, Sir – tid.”

“Chan - of course – ten.” The DCI forced a smile, patting her once more on the shoulder. Chantid resisted the urge to push his hand away; it was obvious he was only nervous, not… lecherous, as he was making himself out to be. There was a long, pregnant pause in the air, and Chantid pushed herself to her feet, gathering her hands in front of her torso and clipping her eyes towards the door. Maybe she could feign needing a little fresh air. “Chan – there wasn’t much on the news, was there – ten.”

This time Chantid shook her head more hurriedly, turning it into a nod halfway through the gesture with an awkward grin. Chanten raised an eyebrow, putting the folder back down quite clearly on the opposite end of the table. “Chan – I heard something while I was travelling,” The lie came far too easily. She could barely even remember the journey, let alone if there’d been a news report on, or where she might have heard about the case in front of her before. Whatever the case was. Much as she hated it, the more they talked, the more it sat in front of her, the more she wanted to read it… Chantid thrust her hands into her pockets as she continued talking, “But there were no details – tid…”

“Chan – exactly – ten. Chan – leave this one to Chantol and I – ten.”

Chantid couldn’t stop herself. “Chan – but – tid–!“

“Chan – that’s an order – ten.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Chantid took a deep, silent breath, shuffling all the papers on the desk more neatly into their respective piles and, surreptitiously, sliding the mysterious red-topped papers into the bottom of the out-box pile. Apparently tired and convinced that his subordinate was going to do as she was told, Chanten didn’t notice. His countenance was stern, but his misunderstood the nervous look on her face or the twitch of her antennae, and rubbed the back of his neck as he turned to leave.

“Chan – sorry, really, I know you just want to prove yourself,” He gestured over his shoulder with one hand, and Chantid couldn’t stifle a small grin all things considered to see he wore cufflinks similar to Chantol’s. It was sweet. “But staying out of this is for your own good – ten.”

“Chan – of course Sir – tid.”

The DCI chuckled towards the doorframe, relaxing at last. “Chan – and you’re not just saying that to make me feel better – ten?”

“Chan – I need this job – tid.” She finally didn’t have to lie. Chantid’s fingertips stopped drawing circles into the table, “Chan – my parents would be disappointed if I got fired on day one – tid.”

“Chan – good girl – ten.” Chanten finally stepped over the threshold of the doorway, without a second glance, and Chantid let out the breath she’d been holding. “Chan – I need to get back to work, so call me if anything else comes up – ten. Chan – and Chantid – ten?”

“Chan – yes – tid?”

“Chan – we’ll get you out on the field tomorrow – ten. Chan – that’s a promise – ten.”

Chantid waited a few minutes before continuing to ‘file’. Chanten had brought her a warmed pastry of some sort, and though she could have had some of her internal milk with that, she found herself wrinkling her nose at the idea, and crossed the office to dispense herself a plastic cup of water. She sipped at it thoughtfully, wondering if she should really do what she was thinking of doing. The filing became detached, absent sorting of each pile into alphabetical order that would have been boring were one, forbidden file not resting across her knee, legs raised up to hide it behind the edge of the table. She’d glanced inside as she’d let it drop before. MURDER. UNSOLVED. HIGH PRIORITY. Who wouldn’t be intrigued?

It would be so easy to steal; her bag was still down at her feet, and all she had to do was stand up and let it slide quietly in. There was no one to stop her. And what harm would it do? DCI Chanten clearly knew what was in the file and he was clearly too busy – probably with other cases, if he’d left it behind – to notice if she did some investigating of her own in between filing sessions. She held no great expectations that he would get her out on the field tomorrow like he’d promised so she might as well do it herself. The more she thought about the less risky and the more obvious the plan became. She could make a name for herself with this. And wasn’t there a thrill to this? An adrenaline rush that felt, to Chantid, like a caffeine kick?

The rest of the morning passed far too slowly; Chantid was certain that at every moment, somebody was going to come and ask if she still had the file and she was going to get caught with it in her bag. She finished filing before their break for lunch, and true to his word, Chanten did convince another officer – who never introduced himself – to show her around the station. She was shown how to log into the computer, where the morgue and evidence rooms were, how to input the security code to get in and out of the station (the receptionist had let her in the night before)… By the end of the day her head was reeling and she had almost forgotten that she was about to steal from her new colleagues all for a chance at glory. Solving the crime would just be a bonus.

“Chan – I found your address – tol.” Chantid’s head was beginning to drop when Chantol turned up holding up a folded sheet of paper between two fingers. She blinked again – was she going to make a habit of this? – and reminded herself to salute, smiling pleasantly. Everyone had made her feel so welcome, and even if she was a one-woman inquisition, Chantol was no exception. “Chan – it’s not far from mine, tol…” The DI hesitated, looking between Chantid and her bags expectantly.

Chantid’s throat locked up. “Ch-chan – that’s okay – tid. Chan – I need to learn to find my own way there, right – tid?”

“Chan – if you’re sure – tol…”

Chantid nodded, holding out her hand. “Chan – can you write down the address for me – tid?”

Chantol nodded, stifling a yawn as Chantid gathered up her things and threw her bag over her shoulder. They walked towards the table side by side, and Chantid rested her shoulders against the doorframe as the DI quickly wrote down the name of and directions to Chantid’s flat in the Conglomeration.

“Chan – try not to sleep in tomorrow morning – tol!”

Chantid laughed, clasped her bag with the stolen file to her side, and gave a broad, cheery gin.

“Chan – oh, I don’t think that I’ll be that clumsy – tid…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the end of my sanity. A few chapters of an almost exclusively malmooth cast and a sort-of-sort-of-not OOC Roda... wish me luck!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter. Real life got in the way. I should be back in the swing of things now.

“Chan – excuse me, Ma’am, but can I ask you a few questions about evidence you gave to the force last week – tid?”

No wonder the case had been driving Chanten up the wall. Chantid had been able to think of nothing else all night. Her apartment turned out to be a modest if homely place, with something of a lived-in feeling; the landlord had agreed to rent it fully furnished for a small extra fee. The bedroom and the living room were one and the same, the bed folding up to make a passable, vintage sofa, and the bathroom and kitchen both branched off on opposite sides of the front door. The only thing wrong with the building was that it turned out to be on the eighteenth floor of a sleek, clean white building with a dysfunctional elevator system, and Chantid was not looking forward to every having to go out.

She’d thrown her bag down at the front door and collapsed onto the bed-sofa with the file practically burning a hole through her fingertips. Her hands shook as she opened it, and she chastised herself. It was only paper, it wasn’t going to bite. Nobody knew she had it, and she could get it back into its proper place tomorrow morning long before anyone knew it was missing. She was oddly certain of it. The rug underneath her was rough, dark blue, and she ran her hand over it absently between turning pages.

“Chan – excuse me Sir, but did you recently tell the police about a humanoid male you saw leave this building the other day – tid…?”

Despite the intrigue, there wasn’t much known about the case or the victim. She wasn’t a malmooth, or any other species native to Malcassairo, which was very interesting. There wasn’t a lot of crime in the Conglomeration so for something like this to happen and involve an alien… Chantid skimmed the first page; nothing except the species – Time Lord – caught her attention. The woman was supposedly short, for a humanoid, with auburn hair that passed her shoulders, green eyes, and fierce freckles covering her body. Apparently she had a habit of painting her face like some sort of primitive creature, and wearing red feathers in her hair. That explained the nickname. And apparently she had three distinctive scars in her back, information that came courtesy of the Time Agency, whoever they were. Maybe there’d be some information back at the station.

A closer inspection at the red ribbon along the top of the sheets explained that the woman was wanted by the Shadow Proclamation, a name that Chantid did know. No wonder Chanten hadn’t wanted her on the case; high profile was an understatement. Under the physical description came a clipped, serious warning: kleptomaniac, radical, highly dangerous – do not approach. Just below that was a number 1, and on the next page a number 3. Something was missing. But it went on to detail the case, which was the important part of the folder.

“Chan – excuse me – tid–! Chan – sorry, Ma’am – tid! Chan – I didn’t mean to disturb your… date – tid!”

The body had been found in the early hours of the morning just under a week earlier, on the floor of a relatively successful liquor store owned by a Mr Chantath and his wife. Witnesses had seen the woman enter the building after dark the night before on apparently amicable terms with a male companion. Apparently no one had been paying enough attention to give a good description of his appearance, but they all remembered a male voice, and the woman referring to him as a doctor.

Mr Chantath had found the body the next day with – it was noted – multiple lacerations focusing largely on the upper torso and face. Shards of glass – diagnostics tests had positively identified them as parts of the broken bottles littering the shop floor – had pierced her chest and hearts – hearts? – in two places, several inches deep, and the force’s forensic scientist had listed that as the cause of death. There were photos attached. Chantid covered her mouth, nauseous, and turned them face down on the table. There had been no fingerprints on the shards of glass, and the force’s chief suspects and only reliable witnesses were Mr Chantath and his wife, Chantae. Which Chantid had decided, before going to bed, would be a good place to start…

If it had come to anything at all. Which it had not. And Chantid’s misplaced curiosity had only soared.

“Chan – excuse me Sir my name is Chantid – tid. Chan – you recently gave evidence to the police about a peculiar case on this street – tid.”

The next few days had proved just as fruitless. Everyone she interrogated, in between helping Chantol and Chanten and everyone else on little things that they hadn’t the time for – she’d enjoyed it, she had to admit – had said the same thing. ‘Yes, we saw something, but not what you’re looking for’. The malmooth she had managed to track down now, a malmooth by the name of Chantar who friends had told her frequented the area where the murder had taken place, was the second last malmooth on her list. She was, in short, getting desperate. If she didn’t find anything else then she was going to have to face the fact that she was going to get about as far in the case as anyone else had, and might as well sneak the folder back into its rightful place when she next got called to the station.

“Chan – are you the police – tar?” The civilian tilted his head onto one side, a paper-wrapped parcel under one hand and a worried expression on his face. Chantid forced herself to remember that didn’t make him a suspect; he was probably just confused, or worried something had happened to someone he knew. “Chan – I already spoke to someone a few days ago – tar.”

Chantid smiled, trying to put the malmooth at ease.

“Chan – I just needed to run over some things, Sir – tid.”

Chantol looked left and right, as though looking for a friend, and then after one quick, longing glance at the package in his hands, swallowed and forced a relaxed grin. “Chan – of course, officer – tor. Chan – what do you want to ask – tar?”

“Chan – what were you doing in the area so late at night – tid?”

By way of answer Chantar lifted the package in his hands, unfolding one corner of the wrapping to show his questioner. Chantid leaned in, but the waft of hot food and spices was so strong that she was amazed she hadn’t picked up on the smell already. Her nose wrinkled as she stifled a sneeze and her stomach made a faint, rumbling sound. Chantar grinned knowingly. “Chan – getting dinner – tar. Chan – little takeaway ‘round the corner from the liquor store – tar.”

“Chan – and it opens late – tid?”

He shrugged. “Chan – not sure it closes – tar.”

“Chan – I see – tid.” Chantid looked down at the notes in her hands, pretending that she didn’t have every line memorised already. “Chan – would you say it’s a busy street corner – tid?”

“Chan – not really – tar. Chan – only saw two people out that night – tar.”

Chantid nodded. “Chan – the two people you told my associates about before – tid.”

“Chan – yes – tar.” The malmooth nodded, obviously eager to be pleasing the police officer who had turned up and interrupted his meal. Chantid supposed people were usually more private about this kind of thing but, keeping her investigations a secret, there was nowhere private to go that wouldn’t raise more suspicions. Better to make it look innocuous and hope gossip didn’t wander back to the station. “Chan – a man and a woman – tar.”

“Chan – malmooths – tid?”

“Chan – not malmooths, no, pink-skinned, humans maybe – tar.” The malmooth scratched his double nostrils absently. “Chan – woman had brown hair and a red coat, no sleeves – tar. Chan – didn’t get a look at the man – tar.” He shrugged. “Chan – blue suit, maybe – tar?”

That was something new. No one had mentioned a blue suit before. Blue suit, blue suit… It seemed familiar, though. It might turn out to be nothing, of course… Trying not to get too excited, though she’d lost count of how many times she had done so, Chantid moved on and held up the stolen file photograph again. It was the sort of photograph that the victim herself had clearly been unaware of being taken. For some reason the thought briefly worried Chantid, before she reminded herself that it was her people, and the great Shadow Proclamation, who has been keeping tracks on this highly dangerous woman, and she was not innocent. Chantid found it hard enough to think of her as ‘the Redjay’ as it was, as though she was talking in the third person. Maybe it was time for her to get some rest.

“Chan – is this the woman – tid?”

Chantar leaned in for a closer look, transferring his lunch to under his other leather-clad arm.

“Chan – yes, that’s her – tar.”

“Chan – and the man,” Chantid persisted, “You can’t tell me anything about him – tid?”

“Chan – he wasn’t the owner of the store he went into,” Chantid raised an eyebrow. That was interesting, a witness knowing the shop owner… She could check it out later on, see if the stories matched. “But he didn’t seem to have a problem getting past the door – tar.”

“Chan – so he had a key – tid?”

“Chan – maybe – tar. Chan – didn’t see how he did it – tar. Chan – woman went in with him – tar.”

Chantid nodded. “Chan – willingly – tid?”

“Chan – looked like it – tar. Chan – she seemed happy to be with him – tar.”

That was new. “Chan – did you see them leave – tid?”

“Chan – on my way back from the takeaway, half hour or so later – tar? Chan – only saw him, though, she wasn’t with him – tar.”

“Chan – which way did he go – tid? Chan – did he seem stressed at all – tid?”

“Chan – funny thing, actually – tar.” Chantar scratched his head, frowning, as though questioning his own answer. “Chan – he went into a small blue box, didn’t come back out – tar. Chan – couldn’t tell if he was stressed or not – tar.”

Chantid tried not to let her antennae fall.

“Chan – did you go straight home after that, or – tid…?”

“Chan – of course – tar.” Chantar frowned again, this time in remembered annoyance. “Chan – my dinner was getting cold – tar.”

Irritably, Chantid took the hint. “Chan – thank you for your help again, Sir – tid.”

“Chan – not a problem – tar.”

Chantar turned to leave, unwrapping his food to check on it as he did, and as an afterthought Chantid folded her arms and raised her voice to catch his attention once more.

“Chan – one last question – tid. Chan – what time of night would you say it was – tid?”

The civilian seemed startled. “Chan – a little after midnight, I think – tar?”

“Chan – that’s definitely it – tid.”

Chantar rolled his eyes and turned to walk away again, muttering under his breath. “Chan – do I need to follow up on anything – tar…”

“Chan – no that’s alright, Sir – tid.” Chantid answered his rhetorical grumbling over-brightly, turning to walk in the other direction. “Chan – have a nice day – tid.”

And so there wasn’t much more to be done. Chantid interrogated the last witness but they had nothing new to say, and nothing polite, it seemed, to say either. She thrust her hands into her uniform pocket, antennae as slumped as her shoulders, dwelling on that one little clue she had managed to gain from days of interrogation. A box. A small blue box. The police’s only suspect, other than a shopkeeper who with every passing day was seeming more and more innocent, had disappeared into a blue box which – Chantid had looked – couldn’t be found anywhere, and never been seen again. Perhaps it would be worth going through the files anyway, though she didn’t have high expectations. She’d have more luck checking out that takeaway, and seeing if there was something hallucinogenic in the water…

She was so lost in wild theories and impossible things that the blue box might have been that she didn’t notice the humanoid walking in the other direction until she had walked right into him and knocked them both to the ground. It had been getting dark – Chanten and Chantol were going to ask questions – and her eyes had been half shut, her spirits falling. A clatter of what sounded like glass and metal serenaded their fall, arms and legs mixed up in what almost felt an inappropriate bundle as Chantid realised she was lying on her back underneath a dark-haired, humanoid man, with absolutely gorgeous eyes and, as their heads began to clear, a playful grin on his face. It was only a few seconds later that she realised she was being straddled, surrounded by what looked like jewellery.

The street had gone quiet, people turning to stare at the display in the middle of the street. Pinching her knees together Chantid narrowed her eyes, flipping the man onto his back and sitting on top of him, glaring and blushing in equal measures. For his part the man just laughed, his arms still half full of riches, pockets of his deep blue coat filled to overflowing with money. Chantid was amazed she hadn’t seen him coming. He was either a thief, or mad, and… It was easy to ignore that he was still grinning, flirting really, because here was a humanoid male, in what might have been mistaken for a blue suit, arms laden and running with no-doubt stolen goods. Chantid reached for her handcuffs.

“I know it’s been a while sweetheart but handcuffs in public? I’m flattered.”

“Chan – I am putting you under arrest under suspicion of theft and for assault of a police officer – tid.”

“Come on. It wasn’t assault.” The man pouted, his eyes still glinting, though his face was far too close to Chantid’s, and he seemed to be studying her just a little too intensely. “Yet.”

Chantid jerked her head, trying to disperse their audience, who gradually got the hint, as she manhandled the brunette onto his belly and, well… He let himself be handcuffed, putting his wrists in exactly the right place. And purred. Chantid snorted, refusing to let him get to her. He was an off-worlder, definitely. One of the Peninsula planets maybe. Not human; there was something not-human in the air, and she didn’t know why.

“Chan – anything you have to say can and will be held against you – tid.”

“What about you?” Chantid rolled her eyes as she pulled the man to his feet, studying the stolen goods littering their feet with resignation and pulling out her phone to call the station without another word. She couldn’t carry it all, guard the potential fugitive, and stop people from grabbing what they could while they could. Not when she couldn’t even get her own thoughts in line. Her duty as an enforcer of the law meant she had to do what she had done, but her instincts… “Would you be held against me?”

“Chan – I forgot to say you have the right to remain silent – tid.”

The man threw his head back, laughing. Clearly he was insane. He hadn’t even tried to hide what he was doing. Chantid was getting more and more certain that he had charged into her on purpose. And he might be a murderer. Before she could say anything else, her DCI picked up the phone, his voice strained and impatient as her was.

“Chan – this better be good newbie – ten.”

“Chan – I need backup – tid.” Chantid swallowed, and kept her eyes firmly on the prisoner. “Chan – I have a thief apprehended on Main Street 7 with a large amount of stolen goods and – and – tid…”

There was a pause at the end of the line.

“Chan – spit it out, officer – ten.”

The smart thing to do would be to confess here and now. Say that she’d been investigating the case, and maybe she’d found a lead. But if she did, she’d be fired before she even got back to the station. Or thrown into a cell herself. Finding that the lie came too easy, Chantid pushed her prisoner away – he had somehow managed to inch his way almost against her front – and tightened his cuffs to a resounding ‘ooh, kinky’, and threw her luck further into the deep end.

“Chan – and I can’t deal with it al on my own, Sir – ten.”


	6. Chapter 6

The capture of the man who had indeed turned out to be a recent high-calibre thief had led to a round of pats on the back from the rest of the station and a round of drinks at a nice bar that had turned out to be just around the corner. The drinks had been strange; they hadn’t had many bars or restaurants back on her station, and as Chantol had explained the bar exported things for tourists, which turned out to be quite good if you wanted a change from your own milk. Chantid had stumbled out the door at the end of the night only to have arms thrown under each of hers and a police escort home. Something which amused her to no end even as she was tucked into her half-bed, and only stopped amusing her the next morning when her head was spinning like… A spinning thing. It was going to be a long morning.

The bed felt strange when she woke up, too. Too small, and too lumpy, with springs in her back and sheets of the wrong fabric and no soft red glow to take away from the utter horror of a hangover. Chantid rolled over, muttering to herself incoherently and reminding herself that she’d never had a hangover before and the living room back home didn’t have red lights before groping for the clock. Must have been a dream. Just another dream. She’d been having a lot of them, since she got to the Conglomeration. And yesterday had been a busy day that ended with alcohol; no wonder her thoughts were all over the place.

Still, they kept drifting to the last interrogation, and the collision with the strange humanoid man shortly after. Chantid had only met a handful of his kind in her life, and none of them male, and yet the whole arrangement had rung strangely familiar, like something from a past life, or a dream that you can’t quite hold onto when the night is over. Rubbing her eyes Chantid pushed herself first into a sitting position and then to her feed, shielding her eyes from the blinding light coming through the open window to pull down the blinds and collapse into the table and chair that made up her kitchen.

She groaned, reaching for her shirt – had she tossed it from the bed in her sleep? – and picking up and reading the note underneath it telling her to come in late for work if she had to. There was a small mess next to the note, and whoever had written it had obviously had trouble finding scrap paper in Chantid’s disorganized excuse for filing. It was a small miracle – at least, given by the joviality of the note – that the stolen records hadn’t been spotted, but the smudged scrawl on the note was barely even legible. Chantid would certainly not be suffering from her hangover in silence.

It took half an hour for Chantid to regain her senses, snap out of felling sorry for herself, and get her uniform on her body in something approaching the right way to wear it. Three tries had been needed to get all of her shirt buttons to line up right and she had left the top one undone, at least until she got to the station. Nobody was going to complain, where they? A quick glass of water was tossed down over dry bread with something too-sweet on top and Chantid was out the door, down the many flights of stairs with hardly a mishap, and at the station before lunchtime. Chanten, who turned out to have written the note, patted her on the head with a murmured ‘well done’ that proved he had obviously not walked off his hangover quite so easily.

“Chan – a week on the job and you already catch a thief carrying millions of credits of stolen good and, well, credits – ten.” The DCI whistled, and then obviously seemed to regret it, pinching the bridge of his nose and smoothing back his antennae as he continued to squint at Chantid over what appeared to be reading glasses. Those were new. “Chan – job’s not over yet, though – ten. Chan – the self-proclaimed Captain,” The malmooth sniffed, and Chantid blinked in confusion. “Is in cell five – ten. Chan – Chantol’s keeping watch, but you better relieve her soon – ten. Chan – I – we – need to go check up on a lead – ten. Chan – could be some time – ten.” He paused. “Chan – seen any blue boxes on street corners on your way to work – ten?”

Chantid froze, studying Chanten’s face. He didn’t seem to be accusing her of anything. In fact, he just seemed rather ill, face a little pale, eyes half shut against the artificial lights of the station, and his long, thin fingertips wrapped around a mug of what he’d apparently claimed would cure all ills with time. Usually an attractive, if old-enough-to-be-her-father, malmooth, today he just looked tired. No one else in the station seemed to be suffering so badly and Chantid wondered if it was stress and not alcohol bringing him down. She swallowed, rubbing her own – alcohol induced – ache in her head before shaking it, perhaps too quickly.

“Chan – no, Sir – tid.”

“Chan – well, it was worth a try – ten.”

Chanten nodded his subordinate on the head once more, gave a polite, forced grin, and turned to walk away, leaving Chantid with a small file on the secured prisoner and directions to the holding cells. Torn between insatiable curiosity and the almost painful nag of solving the murder mystery, Chantid straightened her back, raised her chin, and set off to conduct her first proper, sanctioned interrogation. Of all the things that might have happened as she let Chantol get back to her work and unlocked the door, she hadn’t expected to be flirted with before she even opened her mouth.

“Captain Jack Harkness. No missus, ‘case you need that for the records. Nice night at the pub?”

“Chan – how did you know – tid?”

“You’re squinting. So was the other one, but I reckon you’ve got more experience.” The man winked, a beat passing. “Drinking, I mean.”

“Chan – I don’t drink – tid.”

“Interesting…”

Chantid forced herself to ignore the criminal. He was just trying to get to her, and trip her up. Chantol had been blushing when she’d relinquished the post. He was a smooth talker. She reached into her pocket for a pen, sitting down at the other side of the steel table that the man’s wrists were cuffed to and skimming his file with one eye, the other on him constantly. He winked, and she gave up, turning her full attention to the papers, ignoring his one clenched fist and obvious exhaustion. Maybe he should have thought twice before breaking into – the file claimed – nineteen stately apartments and six deposit boxes, leaving nothing but blue paint and fingerprints behind at each.

“Chan – your name is Jack Harkness – tid?”

The man nodded, then paused and shook his head sternly, his eyes still twinkling. “Captain Jack Harkness. Note the stripes.”

Chantid raised an eyebrow and carried on regardless. “Chan – and your age – tid?”

“Let’s go with thirty.” The man pursed his lips, “Thirty sounds likely enough.”

“Chan – home planet – tid?”

“Earth, currently. Twenty-first century.”

“Chan – you’re a time traveller – tid?”

“Not exactly. Hey.” The man – Jack’s – whole face lit up as he sat up straight in his bondage. “Ja – would it help if I spoke like this – ack? No wait, that’s one syllable.” He paused for just a second, picking up his ridiculous tirade again before Chantid had a chance to even make a sound of protest. “Hark – would it help my case if I spoke like this – ness?”

“Chan – no – tid. Chan – stop it – tid.”

“Hark – no – ness?”

Despite herself, Chantid covered her mouth to try and stifle a giggle. The man grinned even more and she found she actually liked it when he smiled. No wonder Chantol had hurried away so quickly, whether she liked Chanten – they’d kissed, last night, and the whole force had cheered – or not. Realising what she was doing – and thinking – Chantid shook her head, stroking her antennae with both hands with an exasperated noise and dropping both pen and notes to the table with a glare.

“Chan – I can hold you in contempt in a prison cell too – tid!”

“Hark – mission accomplished – ness.”

“Chan – shut up – tid. Chan – why Malcassairo – tid? Chan – why the Conglomeration – tid?”

The man shrugged, bringing his palms together and changing which hand was tightened into a fist. “Pretty police officers and a handcuff fetish? Speaking of pretty bodies, have you seen the one in the morgue?”

Chantid froze, shocked. The man’s eyes were drilling into her. She wrinkled her nose, leaning back and half rocking on her chair, before resting her elbows against the table and putting down her list of questions about his case for the time being. “…Chan – which – tid?”

“Your height, auburn hair, pretty ski-jump nose.” Chantid was aware of being watched intently, and forced herself to keep a poker-face. Why was he describing the murder case she’d stolen? Did he know something? Was he the killer? “More spots on her face than a leopard. Penchant for feathers.”

“Chan – I…” Chantid took a deep breath. “I have not – tid.”

“But you know the one I mean.”

She'd seen photos. “Chan – does this have anything to do with the millions of credits you stole yesterday – tid?!” Chantid lost her temper, slamming her palms down against the table and then, realising she’d snapped, folding her arms tightly across her chest. The man blinked, as surprised as Roda had been a minute ago, before starting to laugh again. This time, though, there was something sad in his eyes, as though he’d expected a different answer. “Chan – well, does it – tid?”

“Well I had to get your attention somehow.”

“Chan – my attention, specifically – tid?”

Jack nodded. “Well don’t you think it’s a good thing to do? Rob from the rich?”

“Chan – it’s against the law – tid!”

“I hadn’t finished.” Chantid sighed, and gestured to let him. “I was going to say ‘give it to the poor’.”

“Chan – you can’t just – tid-“

Chantid shut her mouth. He couldn’t just what? Try to help people? That was exactly why she’d joined the force. And she came from a poor family, with no jewels and next to no credits and certainly no need for a safety deposit box. If he was telling the truth – and she had the strange feeling that he was – then what was he? A criminal, yes, but also a vigilante? A charity? Well-meant. A part of her wanted to convince Chanten that she’d made a mistake and he wasn’t the man who had stolen the riches, that he was trying to return them was all… But she was a police officer. The law was not to be mocked, or bent, no matter the circumstances.

“Can’t what, Ro-Ro?”

“Ro-Ro?”

Chantid tilted her head to one side. Jack paused, and then gave a self-deprecating smile. “Little earthism. Not important.”

“Chan – hmm – tid.” There was no point pushing. He was just going to lead her in more circles. Chantid picked up the notebook at last, tapping her pen off the first question on the list. “Chan – were you targeting specific malmooths or – tid-?”

“Look.” Jack’s hand opened and Chantid found her gaze resting almost immediately on a bronze-gold circle in his hand, intricately carved. She was captivated. Jack didn’t seem to notice. “You need help. You can give all those stuck-ups their gold back. God knows I’m always telling you off for doing just that anyway…”

“Chan – what’s that – tid?”

She leaned bodily over the table, never minding that Jack was potentially dangerous and was spouting nonsense. He half-heartedly tried to pull his hand back, but Chantid managed to grab out at the disk before he could, holding it up to the interrogation room light. She lifted it to her ear and sure enough, it was ticking lightly. A watch? The slim chain fell between her fingers and Jack narrowed his gaze expectantly.

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

“Chan – I – tid…” Chantid shook her head, clamping her hand down on the lid of the fobwatch and slipping the chain around her neck. She tucked it under her uniform shirt, doing up the last button possessively. “Chan – no – tid. Chan – it might be dangerous – tid.”

“It’s been long enough.” The man’s voice turned authoritative, almost commanding, and Chantid pushed herself to her feet, deciding not to humour him. “This is getting dangerous. There has to be another way. You can’t stay like this any longer, remember what happened to the Master.”

“Chan – if you’re not going to cooperate I’ll come back later – tid.”

“That’s enough!”

“Chan – I’ll send my DI back in – tid. Chan – she’ll take you to a cell until your trial – tid.”

“Redjay…!”

Chantid froze in the doorway. “Chan – what did you call me – tid?”

“Your name.” Jack’s voice was strained, desperate even. “You have to trust me – I can’t help you in here.”

“Chan – the Redjay is dead – tid.”

“…What?!”

"Chan - you saw her body - tid. Chan - I'll be back later - tid." Chantid stepped out of the steel room and locked the door behind her with a jolt. The fobwatch bounded against her throat as she walked, listening to the sound of her heart. Funny. She could swear she could hear two of them…


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the person who Chantid meets in part 2/3 of this chapter was really meant to be someone else. And Jack's epiphany in the last chapter was never meant to happen. So while I jiffy the plot around a bit bear with me?

By the end of the day, Chantid was beginning to wish she’d done as she had told and left the case of the murdered ‘Redjay’ well enough alone. It started with Jack, the thief rattling her nerves more than she could say, and ended with seeing a dead woman on live television chasing a small, very scruffy child. Somewhere in the middle, she also very nearly managed to lose her job.

“Chan – what is this – ten?”

Chantid froze in the doorway to Chantol’s office, Jack’s file and the interrogation room keys going limp in her outstretched hand. The file held out in DCI Chanten’s, being waved accusingly in her face, was most definitely not limp. It was in fact as stern as his face was, stiff and unyielding and disappointed looking. Chantid felt like she’d seen the look before and found herself glancing down at her feet, mouth opening and shutting as any excuse she might have been able to come up with fell short before she could even say it. She swallowed, clasping Jack’s file to her chest, taking strange comfort as her thumbs pressed against the fobwatch under her clothing and taking a deep breath.

“Chan – I don’t know Sir – tid. Chan – which file is it – tid?”

“Chan – the file,” Chanten’s eyes narrowed, and Chantol shook her head sadly, her stern countenance almost exactly matching Chanten’s. Their hangovers had worn off, then, thought Chantid bitterly, resisting the urge to drag her feet across the floor. “That I expressly told you not to touch – ten.”

“Chan – oh – tid.” Well as far as explanations went that could have been better. Chantid let go of the file pressed to her chest, handing it to Chantol and pointing behind her. “Chan – I left Ja- the prisoner in the interrogation room – tid. Chan – you might want to deal with him – tid…”

Chantol looked about to argue, but Chanten shook his head sharply, silently pointing over Chantid’s shoulder in turn. The DI took the hint and Chantid let out the breath she’d started holding again. “Chan – of course – tol.”

As soon as Chantol had shut the door behind her Chanten slammed the folder down into the centre of his table and raised both his eyebrows, glaring at the newest recruit to his force. Chantid swallowed once more and tried to look suitably panicked. Fixing a lie with a lie… this was only going to get worse.

“Chan – I wasn’t sure which pile to file it in,” Chantid was aware she was talking too quickly, sinking into the stiff chair on her side of the table as Chanten ran one hand over his face and sunk into the comfortable armchair on his. “You were so busy, I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just left it there – tid.”

“Chan – you didn’t steal it – ten?” The DCI’s tone was, rightly, disbelieving, still angry, and Chantid shook her head with wide, equally disbelieving eyes.

“Chan – no Sir – tid! Chan – what would I do with it – tid?”

“Chan – I don’t know, try and solve the case – ten? Chan – steal it for the press – ten? Chan – simply not know what’s good for you – ten?” The DCI thumbed through the file, looking for the slightest page or clipping out of line, the slightest smudge or mark on the paper. There was none. Chantid had been careful. “Chan – I was telling the truth when I said this case was completely over your head, kid – ten.”

“Chan – I know Sir – tid.”

“Chan – you really didn’t steal it – ten…?” The mistrustful DCI was finally starting to warm to the story. Chantid squirmed appropriately, but she didn’t have to put too much effort into it. She didn’t feel like herself. What was she doing? Why didn’t she just own up and be done with it? Resting her chin in the palm of her hand, Chantid shut and opened her eyes slowly, biting her bottom lip and folding her hands on the desk in front of her. Humming, still not quite sure how to respond. The minutes dragged on until finally he pulled off his spectacles, sitting back in his chair. “Chan – take the day off – ten.” 

Chantid blinked. “Chan – what – tid?”

“Chan – take the day off – ten. Chan – I need some time to think – ten.”

“Chan – but – tid.”

“Chan – but nothing – ten.”

Chantid stood up, eyes narrowed, about to shout something but… She didn’t know what. She sat down again, sinking into the chair in resignation and dropping her head, aware that she was blushing so strongly she might as well have been glowing. At least she was getting off lightly. Maybe she’d have an idea what to do or what to say in the morning. For now Chantid decided not to say anything at all, gathering her belongings into her bag, clocking out of the station and beginning the long – early, before the shuttle – trudge back to her flat in somewhat miserable weather. Well if the mood fit.

“Hey, you! C’mere, get out of the rain before you catch your death of cold. And don’t tell Amy I said that.”

She probably should have turned to run, but Chantid found herself walking towards the human-looking – what the hell were they all doing here this week?! – figure standing just under the shelter of, as luck would have it, a peculiar blue box. Typical. Funny enough, though it was obviously a vivid shade of blue, with opaque glass window frames and a light on the top, Chantid hadn’t even noticed it was there until the man had shouted. She really shouldn’t have been taking his advice and coming out under the rain to stand in the shelter of his blue box because really, her best lead in the Redjay’s murder – a lead which she couldn’t very well tell Chanten about – was a humanoid man who had disappeared into a strange blue box. The way her luck was going she would probably be the next victim.

Not that she could back out now. By the time Chantid’s mind had made the relevant connections she was tucked under the lip of… whatever the box was practically cosying up to a potential murderer in the middle of a rainstorm. Except he didn’t look like a murderer. The witness yesterday had said the man was wearing a blue suit – of course he might have changed his clothes – but the young man with the bouncing fringe in front of him didn’t look like the kind of person to wear a blue suit. He was wearing twee, with a red bowtie at his throat and a welcoming grin on his face. Just what did a murderer look like, anyway?

“Chan – who’s Amy – tid?” She’d asked the question before she thought what she was doing. Of all the places to start... “Chan – and what are you wearing on your head – tid?”

“Oh, a malmooth. Not seen a malmooth in a long time. Chantho, her name was. Brilliant scientist. Have you heard of her?” Chantid shook her head, startled by the tangent. The man eventually twigged onto the fact that she was confused and tugged at the rim of his hat until it was tilted over his eyes, grinning smugly. The rain hit the edge of the hat but he remained bone dry and Chantid looked up as he continued to talk half to himself, surprised that the thin shelter he’d provided was protecting them from the rain at all. “And it’s a Stetson. Stetsons are cool.” He stopped, looking her up and down like a specimen of meat. “Who are you then?”

“Chan – you told me to stand here – tid.”

“I know but who are you? Why are you running home in the rain?”

No need to give him a name. “Chan – because I’m about to get sacked – tid.” Chantid refrained from adding ‘and it might be your fault’; she’d really rather not let him know that she was suspecting him of murder. 

“Well that’s not good.”

“Chan – no – tid.” Chantid wasn’t in a particularly generous mood, folding her arms across her chest, watching the rain, and keeping out an eye for sharp objects that might be stabbed into her hearts… Heart. “…Chan – I’m having a bad day – tid.”

“Hmm.” The man rubbed his jaw, and adjusted his bowtie. “I can tell.” The rain came on heavier and Chantid realised with a start that the man was almost looming over her, still studying her. She took a step back, eyes narrow, trying to look like she was wary of strangers and that was it. The man – who seemed to have no grasp of the concept of personal space – didn’t move any further away, but focused his case on her throat, nodding forward unashamedly at the glint of the fobwatch chain showing around her collar. “That’s interesting.”

“Chan – it’s evidence – tid.” She held onto it like a lifeline, her eyes wide and wary, selfishly refusing to show it to him. “Chan – you can’t take it – tid.”

The man raised his hands in surrender, looking almost… worried? “I wouldn’t take it from you.” His voice was sincere, kind. Maybe it wasn’t his box. Maybe he was just taking shelter from the rain like she was. It had to be that. “Doctor’s honour.”

They stood in silence for the rest of the rainstorm, the doctor occasionally glancing over at her and looking like he was about to say something before shutting his mouth and looking back up at the sky. Chantid held onto the fobwatch, trying not to cry as the weather got to her. It was all falling apart. Her work, her entire life in the Conglomeration… And all because of this Redjay. This dead woman. What right did she have to cause so much trouble from the grave? What was she to Chantid?

Finally, the rain died off. The strange man stuck out his hand, waiting to see if there were any final drops, before turning around and fishing a key from his pockets, holding it up in front of his face and spinning on his heels. The second Chantid realised the box did indeed belong to him she had turned up her collar, turned her tail, and turned around the corner. The man turned around, mouth open in an invitation to come inside, but she was gone. From around the corner Chantid watched as he looked left and right, sighed, murmured something to himself an ducked inside the blue box, before she headed down the street himself convinced that the blue box had to be a dead end.

Her apartment seemed emptier than ever when she finally got home. Chantid kicked off her shoes with a barely restrained temper, sinking into the sofa-bed and, in a fit of grumpiness, turning to bury her head in the folded up pillows and duvet at the end the television was at. When feeling sorry for herself got boring she got up to change into more comfortable clothes, making an early dinner and turning on the television to ready herself for an early night.

Chantid had been beginning to think the day couldn’t get any worse and that the background noise would lull her to sleep and calm her down when she spotted her. The story on the news was unimportant and boring, details of some bank being opened downtown that would bring some more jobs to the Conglomeration and a reporter wondering if now infamous thefts that had targeted the rich the day before would impede on the bank’s profits at all.

Chantid zoned out, making a mental note to ask Jack if that had been his point all along, if of course she had a job to go back to in the morning. The reporter had been rounding up his segment of the news just as a small, dark-haired once-again-human-looking child with unruly hair, dark skin and torn clothes pushed him out of the way, running down the street with a terrified glint in his eyes.

A moment later the Redjay followed him, shouting at him with pleading tones and then cursing to herself as her visage and her voice faded into the distance. She was even wearing the same clothes that she had in the photograph in her file, blue paint on her nose and a single red feather that Chantid’s gaze had focused on as it flashed by, leaving no doubt at all that she was in fact the Redjay. A dead woman. A dead woman who was running down the street on live television. Chantid scratched her hand across her face and dropped her head to the pillows once more, groaning loudly and wishing she’d never thought to join the force at all.

“Chan – why me – tid?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back. :D ps: I seem to be out my funk now....

Chantid planned to walk into the station first thing in the morning and tell Chanten who she had seen on television. She’d planned to storm into Jack’s cell and demand of him just why he had called her ‘Redjay’ and what the hell his game was. She’d planned to bring everybody breakfast and attempt to keep her job by whatever foot-kissing-bribery-and-look-I’m-awesome methods it took. What she hadn’t planned to do was achieve the former and the latter and get attacked and tackled to the floor by the objective in the middle before she even had time to open her mouth and scream. Just why she wanted to keep this job so badly she wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Jeez Roda you’re not even this loud in bed. I’m hurt.”

Jack leaned against Chantid’s carapace as he pinned her to the floor, hand cupped over her mouth below her second set of nostrils. It was clamped tightly, too tightly for Chantid to try and bite him, and for the time being she was so much in shock at being ambushed by a man who should have been locked in his cell that she was just lying there and letting him pin her arms to her sides with his knees and stop him from shouting. She could feel her skin taking on a violet hue, a blush rising up from both the shame of getting attacked and the annoyingly mixed responses from her brain and her body, but Jack – for once – seemed to be largely avoiding the topic of sex and flirting – almost – and simply trying to get at the buttons of Chantid’s shirt. Oh… Perhaps he wasn’t. Oh, god, what if he was going to-

“Quit squirming.” Chantid scowled venomously, hoping to melt some kind of holes in him to get him to let go. His voice was low, focusing on something; Chantid intended on breaking that focus as swiftly as possible by making as much noise as possible. Even his large hand couldn’t muffle everything. “Come on now. I’m trying to help – aha!”

She gagged, despite herself, her smothered shouts and cries cut off as Jack – damn, why was she thinking of an attacker as ‘Jack’, and not just ‘the criminal bastard’?! – pulled a little too tightly on the fobwatch chain around her neck. Blinking came next. She hadn’t even been aware she was wearing it. Then again she didn’t remember taking it off, and that ba-dum-ba-dum noise had been in her head ever since she’d confiscated it. Was that all he’d been looking for? Get back his jewellery then make a run for it? No… That seemed far too easy. So what was it? A weapon? A key of some sort?

Jack’s grip on her mouth changed and Chantid took her chance. She managed to snap at the palm of his hand, hoping to break the skin or at least get him to let go. It worked as he yelped, glaring at her reproachfully as he checked the fobwatch for damages.

“What was that f-“

“Chan – help – tid!”

“Crap!”

Jack put his hand over Chantid’s mouth once more, using his other hand to pull one of her arms free and attempt to force the fobwatch into it with a fierce glare. Chantid managed to keep her hands balled into fists, squirming and jerking until she got one and then the other knee free, rolling onto her shoulders to kick out at Jack’s chest and try and push him away. He stumbled back, hitting the wall with a painful-sounding thump – served him right – as the sounds of hurried footsteps reached them both and shouting, worried voices. Chantid grinned, turning bodily as she scrambled to her feet to reach for the gun tied to her hip, underneath her uniform and found it – 

Gone.

“Sorry Roda. You left me no choice.”

Chantid’s eyes widened, staring down the barrel of the gun pointed flatly at her head. She swallowed, not sure whether to run, shout, or stand her ground. In the end she wound up freezing in place, like an animal caught in the headlights of a cruiser, and she could have sworn that a look of something guilty flashed behind Jack’s eyes as he held his arm steady and glared down at her. She lifted her arms, slowly, barely aware of the fobwatch dangling between the fingers of one hand until Jack gestured briskly with his chin, clearly pointing it out. Careful not to make any sudden movements she glance at it once before catching his glower once more.

“Open it.”

“Chan – what – tid?”

“Open the damn watch, Roda, or I shoot.”

Chantid realised with a start that Jack’s aim had changed once more. She turned her head slowly, expecting the worst, to see Chantol and Chanten levelling guns of their own at the escaped criminal, standing stock still in the door, the first of the team to arrive. It was three against one but Chantid had no doubts about who would be able to fire their gun first. She looked down at her hands, the intricate watch clasped between them, and almost forgot the rest of the world was there. Was it that hard to humour him, if it got him to put the weapon away and not shoot her colleagues? Open the fobwatch… If it was a bomb, at least the cells were a floor underground, and would absorb some of the impact. If not, then he was as mad as he sounded.

She opened the watch with slim, shaking fingertips, and that was when the whole world went white. Chantid could hear somebody screaming and somebody shouting but it wasn’t until her knees hit the stone ground of the cell and her hands were digging into the side of her head that she realised she was the one that was screaming. Everything hurt. Everything. She clawed at her head, forehead to the floor of the corridor, and wrapped her arms around her chest, feeling as though her heart was beating too quickly, too roughly, and too many times. She could hear the same four beats that she’d dreamed about the night before and they came from her own body, dizzying and nauseating. She wanted to throw up but she didn’t even want to move.

Even the gunshot didn’t shake her from the agony, or the strong hands wrapping themselves around her stomach, pulling her close against a warm body and almost to her feet. Chant- no, Roda. Roda could feel someone pulling her along in the almost blinding light that releasing her own self from the fobwatch had caused. Or at least she was vaguely aware of it, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood and trying to blink away the sheer white of blindness and pain to figure out what was going on and who was pulling her. Her hands connected with a rough, hoarse fabric, familiar to the touch, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as she started to see shapes in front of her and worked out it was Jack supporting her, Jack shouting in her ear and willing her to run.

It was then that everything hit her. Forcing down the pain Roda took his advice, pushing her way past Chanten, Chantol, and the other police that had finally followed them down the short flight of stairs, shoving the fobwatch into the deep pockets of her – Chantid’s – now too-deep uniform and stumbling in the direction of more natural light. Jack kept one hand on her shoulder, making sure that she was still moving, but his body was turned to the side as he turned to shoot – Roda hoped – over the heads of the malmooth chasing them. Wishing she was armed herself Roda scrambled up the stairs half on her hands and limped her way to Chanten’s office, pulling his top drawer right out of the desk and checking Jack’s pistol for bullets. None.

“Damn.”

It too was shoved into a pocket as Roda finally moved in a straight line and Jack hooked his arm under her elbow and dragged her towards the door.

“What are you waiting for?!”

“Your gun! I – was getting it.”

“Just move!”

Roda’s voice didn’t feel right, her heartbeat didn’t feel right, she could feel phantoms on top of her head and she was sure she was walking like a newborn giraffe, but with every continuing step she managed to gain speed and balance. She let Jack keep the gun and wiped blood from the side of her mouth, taking a deep breath before punching the malmooth blocking the path to the door in the shoulder and half climbing over him, looking back to see if Jack was still right behind her. Content that he was she leapt over the doorstep, crying out in pain from the sunlight and looking left and right as the shouting built up anew. Apparently the police had gotten over being blinded too.

“Where’s the TARDIS?!”

Jack nearly ran into Roda, catching her by the shoulders and shooting her a disgruntled look as he righted himself. At least he wasn’t pointing a gun at her anymore. Now that she was back in her own mind, the memories of the last time he’d done that as an enemy were rushing back with painful, almost terrifying clarity. She didn’t want to regenerate again.

Jack’s eyes widened in shock and Roda ran her hands over the top of her head with a distressed expression on her face.

“You don’t know?!”

“I’m a little out of sorts right now,” Roda couldn’t help but snap, but at least Jack had started moving again. She followed him, pushing civilians out of the way and waiting for the sounds of approaching feet, hoping they could round a corner before they were seen. No such luck. Roda pushed the pace, switching to respiratory bypass. “And you parked her!”

“Oh. Right.” Jack managed a grin – Roda supposed they should be enjoying running for their lives, not worrying like any normal people – and turned to shoot over his shoulder again. In the absence of a weapon Roda ran with tightened fists. “This way.”

For a few seconds the running was relatively peaceful, but then the shooting started. Jack clasped a hand to his ear as a bullet whistled past his ear, and Roda cursed loudly, barrelling into one of the civilians who had managed to stumble just behind her and knocking him to the ground just in time. The screaming came next, with the quiet and calm-expecting people of Malcassairo unused to the police rallying in such numbers, and with guns too. At least it parted the crowds, Roda thought, which was a mixed blessing; it gave her and Jack a clear path to where the TARDIS was parked, but also gave the police a clear line of sight to where they were running. Though of course they had an ace up their sleeves, just so long as they could get the TARDIS with a few seconds to spare.

Jack pulled Roda to her feet again, for the third time in the last ten minutes. There wasn’t the time to be gentle. They had a few metres on the Malcassairo police but that was all and – Roda grimly admitted as was always the case – they were outnumbered, three to one. Roda winced; even the secretary had taken up arms and joined the chase.

From then on there wasn’t time to think or talk. Roda had never been fond of dodging bullets, which she was willing to admit was somewhat hypocritical since she usually carried a pistol of her own and, where she could, a bow and arrows. Jack took the lead, somewhat less worse for wear than Roda was, jogging on the spot briefly as he turned to fire a few more warning shots at the feet of the approaching policemen. Chanten and Chantol were the only ones who didn’t skid to a stop, as well as the only ones not shouting uselessly. ‘Stop’, ‘hold up’ and ‘hands behind your head’ were not orders Roda had the time to take right now (had she ever been the order-taking type to begin with).

Letting Jack stay in the front, Roda focused on watching his back and making the gap between themselves and the police longer. Roda could regenerate, and Jack would come back to life, but where he was concerned she wasn’t going to risk it and she wasn’t going to leave him behind. Even if she did let him get caught, and broke him out of jail, there was no way she was going to be able to show her face in the Conglomeration again, and she wasn’t about to leave him to rot in jail or send someone else to do the job.

They reached the end of one of the city’s long, seemingly endless streets and as Jack shouted and pointed the direction they had to go Roda ran to one side of the corner, grabbing at the piles of wooden boxes stacked outside a shop. She leaned on the boxes, wary of the voices following them getting louder and a shout of ‘stop what you’re doing’ as she put her weight on her shoulders and knocking the pile over. They toppled after a second or so, but as Roda turned to start running again one of the citizen malmooths on the street grabbed hold of her arm, waving frantically at the police and trying to slow her down.

“Chan – I’ve got her – tru!”

There was nothing else for it. Roda went limp, pretending to give in, then snapped her head back to connect with the face of the civilian – Chantru, she’d gotten so used to picking up malmooth names in the last week… The woman screamed, putting her hands to her face as Roda thrust both elbows backwards to connect with her stomach, toppling Chantru into the pile of boxes and creating yet another obstacle in the way of the police. She could see one of them stopping to help but the rest was still clambering through the wreckage as Roda turned her run into a sprint, trying to keep one eye on which street Jack would turn up or if he would go straight forward. She didn’t notice Chanten lining up his gun, one eye shut and breaking past the rest of the team despite his age, until his first bullet narrowly missed her waist and the second cut deep into her thigh.

Roda hissed, stumbling. Jack’s snapped to attention at the sound of the bullet hitting flesh, slowing to a jog for just a second.

“Jack, run!” Jack narrowed his eyes, looking a few metres ahead at an over-large postbox – the TARDIS? – on an approaching street corner, readying to do as he was told. Roda didn’t blame him. In fact, she hoped that he did. Trying to get him to move she added: “It missed, I just fell!”

“Chan – freeze, Redjay – ten!”

“Red what?”

Roda’s hearts sank. Jack stopped in place, eyes darting back and forward as the DCI pointed his gun square at Roda, who had stumbled back to her feet clutching her thigh then brought her hand up to push her too-messy hair out of her eyes. Chantol had a gun trained on Roda too, as Chanten waved his hand past her, still shouting orders. “Chan – get the thief – ten! Chan – he must be her accomplice – ten.” He glanced to Roda, looking as though his pride – or his affections? – had been wounded, narrowing his gaze as Roda ignored his instructions and started to gently, barely visibly, pace backwards, one foot behind the other. “Chan – where is Chantid – ten? Chan – what did you do to her – tid?”

“I didn’t do anything to her.” Roda hissed, risking a look over her shoulder. Jack had vanished, the police jogging back to where she stood. Part of her was hurt, the other part relieved. “She’s just gone.”

“Chan – liar – tol!” Chantol was visibly shaking, and Roda wondered how much of the transformation back to Time Lord the malmooth had seen. Her eyes were white, and her face more pale than usual, and her aim less steady than Chantol’s. There was something to exploit if she was going to get back to her TARDIS alive. “Chan – you’re dead, I saw your body – tol.”

“Twin sister.” Roda could lie through her teeth when she had to. She’d been taught that trick early on in life, whether she’d wanted it or not. “Comrade in arms. And Jack was her lover. He couldn’t believe she was dead, hell,” Roda barked out a broken laugh, running her hands through her hair; the next half of her sentence was perfectly true, “I couldn’t believe she was dead!”

“Chan – put your hands behind your back and don’t try anything funny – ten. Chan – we’ll finish this at the station – ten.”

“What kind of funny are we talking? Catch!”

Roda had no idea how Jack had managed to sneak up on her like that. She was only glad that he had. She spun on cue, reaching out to catch the pistol that was being tossed to her, silver detail on one side and always stocked with bullets. Jack drew his own – well, Chantid’s – gun from the sleek black belt around his waist once more, winking, Of course Jack hadn’t just left her…! Roda turned so that her shoulder faced her would-be captors, running backwards. Chanten raised his gun once more, cursing angrily, and Chantol shot at Jack, who had turned to run back to the TARDIS as soon as Roda had a weapon in her hands. Roda didn’t need to be told twice. The pistol was raised, one hand used for balance, and she fired between the DCI and DI, grinning briefly as they flinched and each jumped to one side and out of the way.

Sure enough the postbox in front was the TARDIS. This close Roda could feel it, and Jack had left the door open. One of the officers approaching from the direction of the TARDIS ran at Roda, and she kicked out, tripping him flat on his face and then lashing out with one elbow into the chest of his comrade. He stepped back, tripping over the fallen malmooth with a yelp just as Chanten recollected his senses and raised his hands once more. Roda hated what she was about to do but stopping only a few metres from the TARDIS she changed her aim, pointing it straight at Chantol. The malmooth stopped short, eyes wide with fear that Chanti- Roda barely expected of her. Chanten was suddenly just as wary.

“I’m sorry!”

Roda began to walk back, oh so careful, her arm not shaking in the least bit. She could barely walk or run anymore, the bullet wound – she hoped not the bullet – in her leg slowing her down at last. She’d hardly felt the pain over the throb of the chameleon arch, not at all unlike a regeneration. Jack hovered in the doorway, gun aimed at the last approaching officer who had apparently decided it best to drop his gun and just lift his hands in the air. Roda was hardly surprised. Of all the things to happen in finding out if she really was dead, she hadn’t expected to cause this much drama.

“You bitch.”

Chantol gasped, surprised, as Chanten dropped his honourisms and simply hissed at Roda. Roda shrugged, reaching the threshold of the TARDIS and letting out a sigh of relief. She lifted her pistol to point it at the roof, a sad expression on her face, and glanced up at Jack, instinctively checking him over for injuries. Chanten had dropped to Chantol’s side, pulling her to her feet and holding her against him even as he glared at the TARDIS, the impossible postbox in front of him, gun primed. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Now would be a good time to take off!”

“Right, yeah.”

Roda nodded to Jack, leaving him to shut the door and dashing across the TARDIS – the lights flashed, the time machine happy to see her and Roda finding the feeling completely mutual – and ghosting her hands across the console until buttons and levers perked up and could be pulled and pressed down tightly. She didn’t care where they went so long as it wasn’t here. The door of the TARDIS slammed hard behind them as one last bullet was fired, and Roda dropped her pistol to the captain’s chair to work, taking off in a whirr of brakes and engines that sounded more like the Doctor’s TARDIS than her own. She let out another sigh of relief, dropping her hands and her head to the console and taking a few deep, steadying breaths in before turning to Jack with a grin on her face.

“That was a close one.”

Too close. Far too close. Never mind her bullet wounds. Never mind where they were about to land. Roda ran back to the door, dropped to the ground with a grazing of torn knees against metal grating and too-big trousers, and threw Jack’s arm around her shoulder, grunting with effort and pain as she pulled his unconscious– dead, with the pool of blood blossoming on his chest. Her breath caught in her chest and more terrible memories rising unbidden to her mind, Roda hefted Jack’s body to its clumsy lifeless feet and started to drag him to the Zero Room one inch at a time.

He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t die. But there was no way in Rassilon’s name Roda was taking any chances.


	9. Chapter 9

Jack always came back to life with a gasp. Roda was glad that she hadn’t had to see it happen very often – lately, at least. Only thrice since the Valiant, and she hadn’t kept count of how many times she’d seen it happen back then – and it still managed to startle her. She might have been the most tolerant of Jack amongst the surviving ‘adult’ Time Lords but she was certain watching a man come back to life without a new face would shock anyone. Come to think of it, regeneration – so natural to her – would scare most people to. Mumbling to herself, Roda was aware that the injury in her leg, her confusion and the fall from the adrenaline of their run for their lives was generally turning her thoughts into rambling uselessness…

She’d managed to drag herself and Jack halfway to the Zero Room when it happened. The TARDIS was rearranging corridors but Roda was limping and probably could have stood to pay somewhat better attention. Her sense of time was more than a little skewed, having lost the senses – akin to losing a limb, so far as she was concerned – while she was a malmooth, and she wasn’t sure if she’d been walking for seconds or minutes. Jack’s previously limp hands grabbed out without warning, fingers curling into a desperate hold around the first thing he could reach. He stepped forward in mid-run, as though his instincts were still on Malcassairo, caught in a fight or flight response.

Roda half dropped and was half pulled to the floor by her lapels, mothering instincts taking over as she tried to support Captain Jack Harkness at his most vulnerable. As Jack panted, looking around with whiplash-speed movements and trying to work out where he was, Roda made soothing noises, wrapping her hands as best she could around the back of his knuckles and trying to return his focus to the present and the fact that he was, in the TARDIS, very much safe, no matter what her reckless plan had gotten him into. If he’d not tried to rescue her…

“Jack.” There was no point asking if he was alright. Jack would just give her that sardonic ‘what do you think?’ look and they both knew the answer anyway. She pulled one of her hands free to stroke the back of his head, using just enough telepathy to calm them both down. She left his mind respectfully alone and focused on letting him know who he was with. Jack blinked, took a deep breath, and managed to focus on Roda’s tired, worried face, his own contorted with an after-image of the pain of being shot through the chest. “We’re in the TARDIS. Locked and in transit. It’s just us, you’re safe.”

Jack let go of Roda’s shirt after one long minute, patting down his chest – and lightly singed shirt – as though expecting to find the wound still there. His fingertips came away sticky, which barely seemed to bother him; Roda supposed if you died enough times… He still seemed relieved, however, for the couple of seconds before a dark look passed over his eyes and he shot Roda one of the looks he generally reserved for when she’d broken the law ‘even more than you’re allowed to when working for Torchwood’. 

“What the hell did you think you were-?”

Not particularly in the mood to be cowed by Jack’s disapproval Roda put one hand against the wall with a weary sigh and pulled him back to his feet. It wasn’t until she continued to walk down the corridor again that Jack realised that not all the blood on his chest, nor the blood soaking into Roda’s trouser leg, was his.

“…We’ll talk about this later.”

Jack seemed to find it easy to keep up with Roda’s stubborn stride, looping her arm over his shoulder and crouching to lift her into a proper over-the-threshold carry. His tone was angry but not quite enough to hide his concern, and Roda didn’t push him away. She was tired. He had just been dead. It was going to take a couple of minutes for the world to settle into its rightful place again. And anyway, this mode of transport would probably get them to the Zero Room a lot faster whether Roda bristled about it or not.

“Zero Room.” She let her head drop to Jack’s chest but refused to give in to her reeling mind. Guilt, for the time being, was a far stronger motivator, and the comfort to think straight came from the touch of a friend, be he less than impressed or not. “The TARDIS is making a shortcut.”

The silence dragged on for a few seconds, Jack simply nodding, until he apparently couldn’t help himself and smiled down at Roda honestly. She tipped her head when she heard his voice, smiling back.

“We need to stop meeting like this, Ro-Ro.”

“Agreed.” Roda chuckled sheepishly. “Though you can carry me around all you like.”

“Next time you get shot,” Jack’s voice was a mixture of worried and angry, “I’m leaving you on the floor.”

“I’d rather not hold you to that one.”

“What were you thinking, though.”

The silence broke again just as Jack found the right door, pushing it open with one foot as the TARDIS flicked on the lights. Roda’s sigh of relief caught in her throat as Jack put her down on one of the beds, rustling the covers to get her into a sitting position. The Zero Room was a mess, and Roda was sure that she hadn’t actually had to use it for years. The last one she’d been in had been the Doctor’s and then it had been a matter of too little too late and somewhere to recover from a regeneration. Somehow she doubted she was going to die from a bullet to the thigh so long as she got it cleaned up and didn’t do anything too stupid for a couple of days.

“The décor in here? Dunno.” Honestly, Roda didn’t know what she had been thinking. Infiltrating the police to find out about her own murder – which, she felt she should point out, had actually been pretty successful except for the matter of not making arrangements for forgetting who she really was – had seemed like a good idea at the time. Roda hadn’t realised the Conglomeration police worked so closely with the Shadow Proclamation nor had she realised, when she’d bumped into the first malmooth, that they knew who she was. If Gallifrey had still been around and Roda hadn’t been exiled the number of times she’d interfered and crossed her own timeline in the last week alone would have gotten her into miles of trouble. “I let the TARDIS decorate.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jack had been searching the room while Roda rambled, and returned to her side with a stern expression, a pair of scissors, a small metal dish the shape of a kidney and a pair of tweezers. “What if you’d gotten yourself killed?”

“That was the reason I was-“

“What if I’d not managed to find you?” Jack growled, taking a deep breath before cutting off the lower half of Roda’s trouser leg after a nod of ascent and dabbing at the wound with the alcohol he’d poured into the bowl. “Did you want to spend the rest of your life working for the police? A malmooth? Trapped in one time and place forever? Never seeing us a-“

“How’s your chest?”

“Fine.” Roda hissed in pain as the alcohol seeped into the wound and Jack began to pull out what he could find of the shrapnel from the bullet. Roda only hoped that what they could see was all that was left and she wasn’t going to be left with any more foreign objects in her body. She didn’t fancy blood poisoning and three scars on her back from her first regeneration was quite enough metal for her liking. If she ever had to go through airport security again it would be too soon… She reached for Jack’s free hand, and hers was squeezed comfortingly, but there was a pained look in Jack’s eyes and his voice lowered. “Did you even care?”

“I’m not exactly important enough to be missed, Jack…” Roda closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose before peering between parted fingers at the mess of her thigh. She closed her eyes again, voice suddenly quiet and very young. “It might have been something important. Not just to me. What was I supposed to do, just ignore it and hope-“

“You’re starting to catch the Doctor’s martyr complex.”

The pieces of bullet tinkled one after another into the kidney bowl, expelled partially by the stitching of flesh and muscle back together by the Zero Room.

“Pass the bottle on the shelf, the woad.”

Jack handed Roda her woad with a sigh, letting her unscrew the lid with almost ferocious desperation, dip three fingers into the paint, and wipe them across her sweat-soaked face. She felt less naked, more secure, more herself, dressed as the Redjay. Even if she had barely worn her paints in her current regeneration, they were still like a favourite piece of jewellery. Now all she needed was her feathers. Jack understood well enough, watching Roda wipe a blue-stained hand down on her police uniform. He made sure there wasn’t any on his fingertips before returning to his work and satisfied, Roda shook her head and graced Jack’s statement with an answer.

“Martyrdom requires a false sense of self worth. I’ve not had any sense of self worth for a long time. You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I didn’t want you to-” Jack squeezed Roda’s hand, finishing his work on her leg and joining her on the bed. Shuffling up to give him some room and running her hands over the tear in his shirt Roda sighed. “I had to know, Jack. I’m not ready to die yet.”

“You could have told me.”

That was what the real issue was. Jack was immortal, and very much used to Time Lords. Roda’s actions had been far from her most reckless yet, and positively meek compared to some of the scrapes and sacrifices they both knew the Doctor had gotten himself into over the years. But Jack was right. She should have trusted him with this but she’d been so determined that she could fix everything without worrying anyone else with her problems. After all she’d spent nearly a millennium looking after herself, had she not? For years now all her protectors had turned her away, except for the Doctor and Robin. Then Jack, a new and changed Jack to the one she had first met and hated, had offered her a sense of belonging to something again… And in his eyes, she’d turned it away.

“I thought I could fix it myself.” Roda put her weight on her back, stretching out the healing leg beside the other one and wriggling down until she was lying properly against the pillow, Jack leaning over her with his head in one hand. She stared at the roof. “You know me. Bit dim.”

“Bloody stubborn.” Jack laughed and shook his head, kissing Roda on the forehead before lying down beside her and folding his arms behind his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I believe there was talk of handcuffing me to the bed.”

“You know…” Jack pursed his lips in thought, “I’m sure Yan could clear you up a cell in the Hub if I really wanted.”

Roda’s eyes narrowed playfully. “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t.” Jack gave in, and neither of them brought up the idea of being locked up, feeling trapped. Jack took a deep breath then turned to face Roda with one raised eyebrow. “Unless I thought it’d stop you getting yourself killed in a liquor store.”

Roda blinked. “…You worked out a lot.”

“Have you noticed? My ass looks a lot better now.” Roda rolled her eyes, and Jack lifted his hands in surrender. “Only bits and pieces.” He shrugged. “Psychic, remember? You’re easier to read as Chantid.” Roda pouted and folded her arms across her chest. “So are you going to tell me the whole story or do I have to pull rank here?” He patted the stripes on his shoulder. “Pulling rank’s always fun.”

There was a lot to tell Jack but the time to tell it was practically infinite. Roda started at the beginning, from bumping into Chanten the first time back with the Doctor the day that she called Jack for help, to witnesses unable to describe the attacker, right up to taking shelter from a rainstorm under the Doctor’s TARDIS the day after Jack turned up. She mentioned that no, she’d not seen her own corpse but she’d seen enough photographs and records at the station to know that it wasn’t just a lookalike and ended on (yet another) apology for letting him get shot rescuing her. Jack (again) told her to shut up.

“Alright, alright.” Roda smiled, poking at her bare leg once again until she was certain it was fine and she wasn’t going to bleed out anytime soon. She swung her legs, still wincing slightly, over the edge of the bed, stretching her limbs and letting Jack put one hand on the small of her back, his gaze following hers to the ugly bruise and dried blood on her leg. They both winced. “Reckon I wound up worse than you anyway.”

Jack pulled his hand from Roda’s back, standing up and looming over her with a pout. “I got killed.”

“And I got shot.” She paused, pushing herself to her feet and deciding that whatever was left of the healing process could happen somewhere else. The TARDIS would probably clean up the mess by the time the room was needed again, and Roda hoped it wouldn’t be soon. She frowned, looking at her pale, not-blue skin and running her hands over her face as though she was still expecting to find antennae there. And then her frown deepened. “They must have been psychic.”

Jack tilted his head. “…What?”

“The killer.” Roda snapped her fingers, epiphany dawning on her features. “Everyone I spoke to knew he was there but no one knew what he looked like, not really. Just faint clues at the back of their minds – triggered by nerves, interrogation would do that to anyone.” She ran her hands over her face again, this time with an exaggerated moan. “And that’s been a Time Lord trick for years…”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “The Master.”

Roda nodded. “But he’s grounded.” She growled. “The Doctor promised.”

“And the Doctor lies.” Humming thoughtfully, Jack followed Roda out of the room, her brow knitted in frustrated determination. He rolled his eyes even as he worried; of course she’d not take a little thing like them both nearly dying as a reason to ask for help. “Why would the Master want to kill you?” Roda stopped, gave a startled laugh, and continued walking. Jack fell into step beside her with a snort. “Stupid question.”

“You’re right, though.” Roda pulled at her hair, ducking into one of the rooms they passed. After a second Jack recognised her bedroom, and turned his back as Roda stood behind the door of a simple closet and changed into clothes that fit again; an orange-red tunic with a simple pattern stitched around the seams and an anachronistic pair of loose jeans. Her thigh still brushed against the denim, leaving a flower of red that Roda pretended not to notice. She brushed past Jack again without any warning, slipping the bottle of woad she was still carrying into one pocket. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Join the walking paradox club.”

“Not that bit.” Roda smiled fondly. It was a lonely club she was sure. “That was a fixed point. Whole planet felt like you while we were running away. Not to mention the Master going out of his trouble to kill me on Malcassairo...” She frowned. “And getting there.”

“Maybe it’s not him.” Jack shrugged. Roda wished she had an answer after all their effort, not just more vague clues. “Maybe he thought no one important’d find the body. Which was pretty gruesome you know. What have I told you about being more careful?”

Roda only laughed, the idea of taking care of herself rather ludicrous in light of things. 

“Pleasant thoughts.”

“Yep.” The console room lit up as they stepped over the threshold, the corridor dimming and the TARDIS humming as she put all her rooms back into their preferred positions again. Jack sunk into the captain’s chair and after a moment’s hesitation Roda couldn’t resist the seat and sat ceremoniously on his lap. Jack raised an eyebrow and, playing coy, glad that their argument had passed, Roda ignored him. “All that’s left is never going outside again.”

“You need help.”

Roda’s gaze settled on the feather she had left on the console a week before, her hand wrapping around it comfortingly. Jack produced a skein of thread from one pocket and Roda set to work winding the feather up in a new braid.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Are you going to ask for it this time?”

“I asked you.” Roda looked over her shoulder, eyes wide with honesty. Jack sighed, and Roda looked up at the roof with a groan. “Ai… The Doctor. I’ll have to ask the Doctor.” A snort. “He’s going to kill me himself.”

Roda folded her arms under her head and rested it down on the console. Jack stroked her back between her shoulder blades and tried to ignore her presence in his lap. And just as Roda was starting to get comfortable and resigning herself to the fact that things were even worse than she’d thought they were before Jack snapped his fingers, jerking her upright with a surprised yelp.

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“I was just thinking.” Jack gestured behind Roda’s head with one hand as she turned to face him once more, blue paint even more smudged by the console. He grinned, clearly proud of himself. “Someone wants you dead, and is going to succeed.”

“I worked that bit out.”

“Just wait.” Roda hrred impatiently. “You’ve found out all you can without getting yourself killed and you don’t want to worry the Doctor in case he tries to stop you, right?” Roda nodded. He wouldn’t want her dead, she was sure, but… Complications were complicated. “Right. Then.” Jack’s grin widened and Roda began to wonder just what exactly he called a plan. “What about Alex?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when I started this story it was meant to be a reasonably simple little thing about Roda using a chameleon arch to solve the mystery of a murder. If I'd known at the start that the murder was going to be who it's turned out to be, that I'd come out of it with a few malmooth OCs that I'm fond of, that the solution in this chapter was going to crop up at all and that I'd have the OCs that you'll see in soon-to-be chapters, I think I might have been scared to start. This turned out much bigger than expected and I hope you don't find it long-winded, ridiculous or anything else at all. If you've read this, I am very grateful. Thank you.

“…I take it this isn’t a social call.”

It wasn’t, of course, because Jack and Roda and time travel and murder were involved and that was always a recipe for trouble. Though Roda still did her best to turn it into one all the same, leaning on Jack for balance and holding out a packet of biscuits as Alexander Saxon greeted them in the wide, circular courtyard of his enormous house. The look on her face was a sheepish one, if serious, as though daring the younger Time Lord to tell them off for turning up at his house covered in blood bearing only chocolate biscuits. Taking the hint (or perhaps expecting trouble and finding himself generally unsurprised) Alex, frowning somewhat, invited them both into the kitchen for a cup of tea and asked, calmly enough, for the details.

Jack was more eager to give them of course. Alex knew Jack, and Roda knew Jack, and Jack knew them both, all times perhaps too well. Roda supposed she should probably get to know Alex a little better too and stop, however subconsciously, punishing him for the sins of his father. It was enough for her mind that she’d agreed to come to Alex for a lack of judgement and genuinely help, but with the tiniest (if only) theory that it could be Alex’s own father behind her murder old wounds had started to fester in Roda’s hearts until the point, on the way to his terraformed planet, that Roda had almost tried to back out of Jack’s suggestion and go find the Doctor instead. It was almost from shame that Roda obediently caught Alex up with everything she had told Jack and agreed to let Alex take a look at her leg.

With his usual pragmatism Alex didn’t interrupt or ask any questions until Roda was finished, in the manner of not startling a wild bird. When she was done there were a lot of them that she and Jack – from both of their perspectives of the situation – did their best to answer.

Jack had already told Roda that he’d worked out a few things of his own before letting himself get caught. Apparently the malmooth of the Conglomeration thought that the police had been hiding a lot of things after Roda’s murder had been released to the press. Generally cynical of governments Roda kept her mouth shut. But there had also been a barely receding flow of humanoids coming and going from the Shadow Proclamation HQ on the planet (which explained why no one had been at all surprised to see herself, Jack, the Doctor or the murderer (presumably) in their proper bodies).

“And now you’re here.” Alex nodded, taking everything in, before rising and crossing to the electric kettle across the room. “Another cup of tea?”

Jack smiled fondly and nodded, and Roda waved one hand weakly in ascent. Jack squeezed her thigh under the table and with barely a squeak Roda dropped her head to the table, still wound up. It was easy to envy Jack his ability to bounce back from the worst sometimes, and on rare occasions, his ability to come back from the dead. Easy to enjoy the flirting, too. “Or coffee. If you have it.”

“It won’t be as good as Ianto’s.”

Jack puffed up his chest with indignant pride on his boyfriend’s behalf. “No one’s coffee is better than Ianto’s.”

Roda raised her hands, forehead still resting against the table. “I wasn’t arguing.”

“Coffee it is.”

When Alex returned with a fresh round of drinks – letting Jack help but shooing a still limping Roda back into her chair with a glare – the conversation started up anew.

“Why my father, though?” Alex took a sip of his tea, pushing the bowl of sugar towards Jack. “He’s capable of it, sure. But you’re right, it makes no sense…”

Roda shrugged, hugging the coffee to her chest as though she’d been handed a caffeinated holy grail. “I’ve made a lot of enemies but not many of them are decent telepaths.”

“Shadow Proclamation?”

Roda blinked. “How did you-“

“They’ve been in touch as a ‘possible contact’.” Alex was matter-of-fact, though a smile threatened to break free from his features. Jack looked proud too. “I described your last regeneration and denounced your wicked ways.”

Roda had to cup her hand over her mouth to stifle a loud, triumphant laugh. “Sometimes I love you.”

Pretending to be jealous, Jack put his arm across Roda’s chair so his hand rested on her arse, patting it lightly while Alex continued. Roda thumped him in the arm and turned to use his shoulder as an arm-rest. 

“Not their kind of thing either though.”

“No.”

Roda found herself quite relieved that Alex didn’t know all the details of her history with that organisation. Or so she assumed; the Doctor didn’t know it all, nor did Jack or the Master, but between the three of them there was every chance it could be pieced together, even if none of them had been born when Roda looked into the Schism.

“Then maybe you were wrong about the telepathy?” Jack offered up the suggestion through a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “Could have been some other reason no one could describe the killer. Maybe he just wasn’t memorable.” He shrugged, gesturing absently with the last edge of biscuit, damp from being dunked in tea. “You said something about fixed points. Maybe he had something to do with a rift in one.”

“It might be that he’s the polar opposite of a fixed point.” Alex agreed, “The identity of the killer himself – or herself – might be fluid.”

Roda held back a comment about the uselessness of water-based assassins from behind closed eyes and acutely listening ears.

“So there’s a chance any number of people might kill me in one specific way on a planet that is relatively hard to get to at the best of times, and I can’t even limit it.”

Alex paused. “That’s about right. Though you probably could limit it a little.”

“Unless there’s multiple dimensions involved.”

Roda shot Jack a sardonic look, opening one eye. “Thank you for the optimism.”

“Just playing the voice of reason.”

“It might complicate matters though.”

The room fell silent, and Roda winced, Gallifrey coming to mind. “I’ve had enough of multiple dimensions to last me a lifetime. I think.” She took a long drink of her coffee, rubbing her thigh briefly and wiping the froth from her top lip. “There’s only a few people it’s ever going to be. The Master, maybe the Shadow Proclamation or-“ Roda cut off, eyeing Jack.

“The Time Agency.” Jack’s jaw tensed for a while and Alex glanced at him with caring eyes.

“…The Time Agency.” Roda nodded and continued. “It might be linked to something back on Bandraginus Five regenerations ago but I doubt it. And given how badly Chan- the DCI reacted,” Roda pinched her nose. Chantid was proving hard to let go of as swiftly as she’d thought, “It might even have been someone in the force and the so-called ‘case’ was a cover-up.”

“Someone else chameleon arched?”

“Unlikely.” Roda and Alex answered Jack simultaneously. Jack beamed, gesturing with both hands as if to say ‘great minds think alike, time for a threesome’. Roda let Alex continue. “The motive would be too sophisticated to guarantee it was remembered. There are ways to at least assume the appearance of someone else but…”

“Not worth it?”

“Exactly.” Roda snorted. “Though that’s a matter of opinion.”

“For a piece of that ass?” Jack leaned it over to squeeze Roda’s behind again and smiling pleasantly Roda twisted in her chair to grab his hands, pinning them together. Jack winked and Alex smiled knowingly. “I’d do anything. Though…” He squirmed. “Mine might get a higher bounty. What do you think Alex?”

“I think this brainstorming is over.” He had a point. They had no new answers, really, only more questions. Not to mention Alex, being Alex, barely blushed at Jack’s question. “And given the choice, people might go for both.”

“Flatterer.” 

ack preened. The conversation carried on that way for a couple of minutes. Roda sat upright, apparently content to admit that a few hours in the company of friends wasn’t going to make her any more likely to get killed in the future. In fact it seemed like a better plan than barricading the TARDIS door and learning to knit. Basking in the pseudo-Gallifreyan-ness of Alex’s home she let Jack’s hands wander as he caught Alex up on less immediate things; interesting aliens in the Hub, Rita and Michael sharing cute looks whenever nobody was watching, a new use Ianto had found for a stopwatch before Roda had interrupted them the other night. It was more than pleasant, Alex attentive to his guests and, though he explained that he had been interrupted from his work on his new Matrix, happy to be so.

“Right.” Jack pushed himself up from the table with a grin, his chair scraping back along the floor as he did so. “Unless anyone wants to wash my back for me,” Roda smiled and rolled her eyes. “I’m going for a shower. I’ll let you two talk conspiracy theories and impossible plans to yourselves. Got some red,” He tapped his chest clumsily, “Right here…”

“I’ll kiss it better if you like. Unless Alex wants to.” Roda hummed innocently.

Alex nodded vaguely, apparently lost in his thoughts and just hearing. Jack only smiled; his Time Lords, seriously. In the doorway, though, he hovered expectantly, looking down towards Roda with his arms folded over his chest. More slowly, Roda got up to join him and Alex swept their mugs and the bowl of sugar into his arms pointedly. Jack put his hands on Roda’s shoulders, holding her at length and studying her expression thoughtfully. He let her go as he began to speak.

“I forgot to say something back in the TARDIS by the way.”

“Oh?”

Roda crossed her arms in turn, leaning back on the doorframe, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Alex took his cue and turned back to the sink full of mugs, turning on the tap and doing his best not to eavesdrop. Jack’s pleasant smile betrayed the stern look in his eyes as his breath murmured against Roda’s ear and Roda’s grip on the doorframe tightened. There was almost a growl in his tone, and Roda wondered just what it was he was so worked up about as her teeth tugged at her bottom lip.

“You’re definitely important enough to be missed.”

For a second Roda froze, as though she didn’t understand what she’d been told. She’d still been expecting to be told off for something else; Jack had been quite obviously worried back in the TARDIS, and she’d hasten a guess – hypocritically so – more than a little annoyed by her risk-taking. Jack noticed and put his hand over hers like she had back in the TARDIS, when he came back to life. He almost seemed to read her mind.

“I’ve lost a lot of people. Torchwood gave me a psychology mini-course too. Ianto’s been calling it ‘post traumatic Torchwood disorder counselling’ but maybe I notice a few things too after a thousand years.”

Roda smiled gratefully then narrowed her eyes more seductively, filing the good and happy feelings away for later and tilting her head to whisper in Jack’s ear in turn. There was no need to say thank you.

“I’m still older.”

“That only makes you a cougar and I’m fine with that!”

Roda chuckled, and they both pulled back. “So I’ll catch you up then?”

Jack purred. “I thought you’d never get to it.”

With that Jack patted the side of Roda’s neck once and began to pull at the sleeves of his coat, clearly comfortable enough in the Seeker’s home to undress before he even got to the bathroom. Roda wolf-whistled once as Jack’s ceremoniously whipped off his belt, before looking over her shoulder at Alex.

He seemed to know exactly when to look up again, and his conscientiousness Roda smile as much as Jack’s – perhaps misguided – belief that she was worth their friendship. It occurred to her briefly that she was going to have to ask for the guided tour of the place one of these days. She’d only ever seen the library, one laboratory, and a cupboard full of cricket equipment, before today. For one thing, she had no idea where the bathroom was. It reminded her of getting lost in Rassilon’s house when she first moved in (and, to be fair, she was still getting lost when she moved out too).

“I’ll admit,” Roda crossed to the sink, picking up the dish towel by the rack without invitation in an attempt to lighten the mood. Alex – it’d take a little longer still until she was used to calling him the Seeker, but the new regeneration was helping – returned to washing the mugs, watching Roda with barely-hidden curiosity. She passed the towel from hand to hand, remembering the Doctor’s TARDIS-blue towel that had been a gift from the Ponds. Come to think of it, it might have been something of a hint. Roda wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the Doctor wash dishes, except perhaps his fifth regeneration. “It wasn’t my best plan.”

“No offence,” Alex ran the sponge around the inside of one mug with precision, “But your plans could always be better.”

Roda snorted. Alex had been blunt with his opinions since he was a toddler. Putting on her best impersonation of Rassilon, from back when she was growing up, Roda narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. “Insolent tot!” Alex bristled at the description and Roda chuckled, ruffling his hair before she thought to stop herself and only making him sigh with resignation. She nearly sighed herself; it had been a long time since she’d thought about that far into her own past. “Even if you are right.” She shook her head sharply, once. “And I’m not saying you are.” Alex grinned. “There’s no fun in knowing who wins.”

“There’s a little more security though.” Roda opened her mouth to argue but couldn’t think what to say. “And frankly you don’t end up stumbling over your own corpse quite so often.”

It was Roda’s turn to pout. “You could try to sound a little more worried for my wellbeing.” She scowled, grumbling into the floor. “And it was only once.”

“Once more than is generally considered healthy. And why would I?” Roda stifled a splutter with difficulty and Alex beamed, a glint in his eyes as he placed the first mug down on the drying rack and met Roda’s widened eyes. “I have a plan.”

Regaining her composure Roda picked up the mug with one towelled hand and stuck out her tongue. “There’s no need to sound so smug about it.”

“So you don’t want to hear it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Roda remembered a lecture at the Academy by Professor Niels – one of the few she hadn’t managed to annoy to the point of new expulsion – about the focus of higher beings. He’d praised ‘attention’ as a wonderful thing – a life-saver, a means to greatness, the best way not to crash your TARDIS – but also stressed that no matter how intelligent the species, it was only the true geniuses who were capable of what he called ‘true multi-tasking’. Not even Time Lords had brains wired in quite the right way, which was good, he’d explained, because as a general rule it was essentially a survival adaptation. Roda knew she didn’t fit into the criteria; her drying had slowed down since they started talking. Alex on the other hand was happily washing dishes, talking coherently, and thinking up what, as he began to explain, definitely classified as a genius idea all the same time. All without falling head-first into the sink.

“Have you considered hypnosis?” Roda’s look said everything Alex would ever need to know about her stance on mind control. “No, I didn’t think so. And besides, I can put together something like a flesh clone. Or a Teselecta if you don’t like that kind of thing either.”

Roda most certainly didn’t like the idea of any kind of clone dying for her and said so, eyes narrowed in moral indignation. She’d seen and heard of enough cloning practices around the universe – even one on Gallifrey, and attempt at producing natural offspring – to know how she felt and that a short, painful life and a longer painful ending wasn’t something she would inflict on anyone. Alex nodded as though it was exactly the answer he’d been expecting and shook his hands dry over the sink.

“You won’t mind a Teselecta, then. You’ll be the only one inside, and you have to simulate the correct nerve-ending responses, no one feels a thing. Probably.”

Roda nodded and shook her head at the same time. “Right, good, a tese-what?”

“Teselecta. Obviously I couldn’t use the exact technology. It’s been patented.” That wasn’t quite an explanation but Roda assumed Alex was getting to one as she put down the last towel-dried mug. “It’s what the Doctor used when he was dead.”

Strange inflection on the words or not Roda nearly dropped the dish towel into the sink and her voice rose an octave. “The Doctor was dead?”

Alex pursed his lips. “Maybe he didn’t want to worry you either.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

And she sensed she wasn’t going to get one. Roda made a mental note to ask the Doctor – shake an answer out of him in need be – as soon as she next saw him. It begged the question, too, if he’d known who she was back on Malcassairo – who Chantid was, rather – or if he’d known that she was on the planet somewhere and had been looking for her. And had he known about her murder? She decided to assume not, for the time being, and to decide whether or not she’d explain this all to him once he couldn’t stop her or just leave him in ignorant bliss too.

“Never mind. What’s a Teselecta?”

“It’s an android.” Roda’s expression went from angry, to wary, to resigned in a matter of seconds. She nodded for Alex to continue and he filed away his surprise. This wasn’t the time to ask. “Not an intelligent one. It’s man-powered.” Roda opened her mouth in confusion. “Miniaturisation ray and compression fields.”

“I was going to ask.”

“I know. And I can build one.”

“Why would I want to use an android?”

“Well you don’t want to die.” Roda rolled her eyes as Alex explained. “It can change shape. An official Teselecta took on the Doctor’s appearance and a Nazi’s. And River’s. And from what the Doctor has told me – and that took some convincing – it can mimic any and all cellular activity and biology with the proper programming including those of a Time Lord.”

She couldn’t help it. Roda was impressed. She folded her arms over her chest and bit her bottom lip, nodding and otherwise refusing to admit so. Alex smirked all the same; Roda’s poker face – unless she was actually playing poker – wasn’t the finest. She tended to wear her emotions on her sleeve more than the rest of the living Time Lords. In fact he’d briefly theorised that it might have been to do with gender before deciding that first of all, one example was not enough to form a conclusion and second, human or alien that was an incredibly sexist theory.

“Regeneration included?” Alex nodded, but Roda scowled. “I didn’t regenerate though. It’s my body,” She touched her shoulders, briefly running the fabric of her shirt between forefinger and thumb. “In that morgue.”

“So presumably whoever killed you did so mid-regeneration. There would have been regenerative energy even in a quick death and from what you’ve told me…”

“I’m starting to think I want a shower too now…”

Alex smiled grimly. “I’d feel the same way.” He paused. “…Probably.” He paused again. “So do you want me to-“

“Yes.” Roda interrupted before she could change her mind. It was a miracle, and it was the best thing that they had, and if Alex could guarantee that the android wasn’t sentient and wouldn’t feel any pain… Or at the very least that the body wouldn’t. She figured a little pain herself would be worth the price of cheating death. “It’s the only hope I have.”

“It’ll be a little hard for you to use unless you want help.” Alex seemed briefly sheepish. “The Doctor’s Teselecta had a crew of four hundred and twenty one people. I might be able to make it so that it only takes a few people but-“

Roda shook her head viciously. “Can you make it for one person? I’m not as dim as I look.”

“I never said you were-“

“I’ll memorise it.” Roda’s hands were fists. Her determination would either save her life or damn it, and maybe Jack was right. Maybe she was developing a martyr complex. Maybe she’d had one all along and hadn’t realised it. “I’m not putting anyone else in danger if the killer works out what you’ve done.”

“Jack won’t be happy.” Alex dried his palms properly on his trouser legs, and Roda copied him on her one good leg. “He’s not the only one.”

Roda smiled sadly, and after a moment’s hesitation, kissed Alex on the forehead. “I’ll… Talk him – or them – around. Do you need help with the building?”

The young Time Lord laughed. “I work better left to my own devices. Give me a few days.” Roda nodded, turning to go find Jack – forgetting to ask for directions. “And let one of us look at your leg before you go!”

“I’ve had worse kid.”

“It’s Seeker.”

Roda grinned, and ducked out the door. “I know.”

“Third left.”

It was just as well that Gallifreyan buildings tended to be circular and misguiding as well, or Roda would never have found the shower. As it was when she found the room Jack was in half an hour later, he was still in the shower.

“Come to wash my back after all?”

“You’ve been waiting to say that, haven’t you?” Jack shrugged. Roda laughed, undoing her shirt buttons and not bothering to avert her eyes if Jack was going to be like that. She kicked the door shut behind her with one bare foot, and it clicked almost clinically into place, a well oiled machine like the rest of the home/workshop. “Only if you wash my hair.”

“That’s foreplay, right?”

“Jack. You’re naked and I’m getting there.” Roda laughed and Jack grinned, water running down his body in very pleasing ways that Roda found did equally pleasing things to her in turn. Her fingers began to fumble on the last of her shirt buttons, and she pushed her hair and the feather behind her ear with what almost approached coyness. “Anything’s foreplay for you when you’re naked.”

“Not everything.” Jack crossed his hands over his crotch in mock horror. “And what do you mean I’m naked?!”

There was a frown on Roda’s face; a playful one, or a cheerful weariness that came from knowing Jack and, like so many people, falling in love in a sort of way. Roda dropped her shirt to the floor first, then a simple bra with a simple clasp, grabbed off the TARDIS floor to begin with. She didn’t put on a show even if Jack did imitate her wolf-whistle from before. In a few seconds Roda was stood in her red, lace-edged underwear only, arms folded modestly around a heavily freckled and currently black and blue chest. It rose and fell gently, her bosom ample and her broader hips one of the few places where she seemed to have curves. More than one lover had told Roda she could stand to put a little weight on. More important ones like Jack knew her shape wasn’t for lack of trying. 

There was more than one towel in the room – Roda had the feeling they were there for visits like Jack, or perhaps specifically for him – and she pulled one down from the rack, dumping it closer to the shower door and tilting her head to one side. She stepped out of her boxers almost reluctantly, eyeing up her thigh, tossing them to the pile that the rest of her clothes was in with one toe and wondering if she shouldn’t just burn the trousers and the rest of the things she’d bled on. Not the most attractive thought all in all, and since it threatened to kill the mood a little Roda rubbed the back of her ankle with one foot and looked up at Jack. He raised an eyebrow and opened his arms accommodatingly.

“What’s the matter, scared of a little water?”

“It’s more the soap that worries me…”

Roda opened the shower door they’d both been shouting through, leaning on the wall opposite Jack and letting the shower more splash her than douse her. Little drops landed on the blue paint wiped across her face in none of her usual intricate patterns, small tracks starting to roll down her cheeks and over her nose. She hadn’t let it dry properly. An idea came to mind that made her grin, almost forgetting that she was supposed to be feeling angsty still. There was a planet she’d once been to where the few paints she wore had been considered underdressed-ness, and a kindly woman had painted all over Roda’s body to help her fit in. She’d also insisted on Roda losing her shirt. Roda wondered if Jack would be interested. 

“Though with the whole shards of broken glass through the chest thing to deal with Rassilon knows why I’m worrying.”

Jack, hands already full of shampoo, turned Roda gently around and ran his hands over her scalp, massaging the soap into her hair quietly by way of answer. The Time Lady’s shoulders fell, much less tense, and she closed her eyes as her forehead rested against the glass wall. Letting the feather fall out of the way and rest on her shoulder Jack bunched Roda’s hair up into the soap, taking his time until her head was lost in a heavy lather. The hot water rolled over them both, pleasantly warm and steaming. It might have surprised anyone who didn’t know them but it wasn’t all about sex, their shared method of winding down. It had becomes something of a tradition, though, and Roda was just grateful that Ianto understood and condoned Jack’s behaviour. It helped to be friends.

“Alex’ll work it out.”

“He has. Sort of.” Roda nodded, turning to face Jack with her eyes shut against the shampoo. He ran his thumb over her eyes, pushing it out of her face as Roda stepped against him and under the water, her breasts pressed against his chest and her feet between his slightly spread legs. Jack had a few inches on Roda – most people did, she hadn’t been this short for a few regenerations – and they fit together well in the small space. “He’s a smart kid.”

“Good kid, too.”

“Shame about the parents.” An old litany. Roda shook her head fondly and her voice lowered, just daring to sound hopeful. “If his plan works…”

“You swallowed your pride, then?” Roda thumped Jack’s chest blindly and Jack smiled, grabbing and kissing the back of her knuckles, dipping his knees in a curtsy before returning his attention to rinsing his hair. Roda’s toes danced around his leg, stroking up to one thigh before returning to the ground for balance. Jack hissed in a breath, his fingertips a little less than gentle for a few gathering seconds, and Roda peered through half-squinted eyes. “Now that was uncalled for.”

“Bastard.”

Jack laughed, teeth bared. “Thief.”

“Conman.” Jack pressed a chaste kiss to Roda’s lips to shut her up. Roda drew it out, hands sliding down from his neck to his shoulders to sit on his hips as she opened her eyes properly and raised an eyebrow. She was one the tips of his toes and Jack’s hands were under her backside supportively. Both their gazes slid southwards. Both of them forgot things were going wrong and just enjoyed themselves. “Pass the soap.” Jack did as he was told and withdrew his hands from Roda’s backside. “There’s a double bed in the TARDIS once you’re scrubbed up.”

“Finally...!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's also art for this chapter that I drew around mid-August, which helped work out who the killer was going to be. See the end.

The Conglomeration was so quiet at night… Roda was sure it had seemed busier from Chantid’s point of view. Perhaps to a station-born malmooth moving to the city for the first time it had been. Roda, on the other hand, had grown up in the imperialistic hustle and bustle of Gallifrey’s Citadel. To her, there was no comparison. Nowhere else was simultaneously so quiet and so busy. Gallifrey hustled, but it didn’t bustle. You were expected to be busy doing something for the good of the planet, doing something to prove that the Time Lords were all important, but you weren’t to disturb anyone else while you did it or busy yourself with such frivolities of enjoying yourself. She both hated and loved it; hated it enough to leave and loved it enough to mourn.

But the Conglomeration was different. During the day there were vendors, tourists, civil servants, friendly police… Very little crime, at least until the likes of Time Lords involved themselves in the planet’s day to day life. You could barely move for malmooths, and they all smiled, but as soon as night fell it changed. It wasn’t that people were scared to leave their homes, it was as close to a utopia as many people felt they would get, but more that they didn’t care to. The odd person went to get food, or to walk a pet. The police more or less patrolled, but more in the pubs and less on the street. And murders, committed by psychic beings who Roda hoped had some sort of agenda and didn’t just hate her, went unnoticed. Then again, her father’s disappearance on Gallirey had been no different.

Roda knew where she had to be, and at roughly what time. She’d returned to Malcassairo just in time for her own murder, and too early to be recognized by anyone else. Alex had seemed to disapprove not of her motives but of her going alone, and she’d lied to Jack about why she had to do just that, but she’d had to do it, and as soon as he’d finished building what he colloquially referred to as ‘the Teselecta, Seeker brand, patent pending’ she had wasted no time fussing around the vortex trying to put it off. Fixed points had to happen, whether you liked them or not. The consequences of preventing them was too awful to contemplate. But perhaps fate could be tricked into believing they’d come to be…

Still, whether the police directly recognized her or not was one thing. If Chanten had been telling the truth then the Shadow Proclamation did know she was around. Roda had been cursing herself for letting them track her at all, and had jettisoned the largely-unused room of the TARDIS that they had been receiving their signal from. She had to be careful which was why, getting to the liquor store where her body would be found in the morning – Roda shivered inside the Teselecta and the Teselecta shivered too – she was sticking to the shadows as much as she could without hiding from her murderer too. Rassilon’s balls… Life could never just be simple.

It felt strange for her body to be moving while simultaneously not being her body. Roda had been an advocate of android civil rights since Bandraginus V, but Alex had assured her that her body and mind was the only one inside this robot’s head. It would die, and trick all but the most rigorous tests (in other words, it would stand up until the Shadow Proclamation or the Time Agency had a closer look), as a perfectly legitimate biological Time Lord. The controls seemed laughably simple for such a complex machine. So long as she was in cockpit and willed it, every move she made would be mimicked by the machine, and in theory, pressing the rights buttons would induce whatever physical phenomenon was required. Alex had admitted that there might be some physical side-effects in maintaining a perfect imitation of her own movements but it was a risk Roda was willing to take.

Roda had been so lost in her thoughts that when she finally passed someone who was neither malmooth nor oblivious to her whereabouts, she nearly walked right into him.

“…Doctor?” Roda scowled – so did the Teselecta – but her confusion didn’t last long. Relief got the better of her; she didn’t want to put a friend in danger, but maybe she didn’t have to do this alone after all. She smiled, her laugh genuine, and pushed a few strands of hair subconsciously behind her ears. Without her paints or her feathers, still missing from before her chameleon circuit, she felt naked. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Still, it was strange. Roda was sure that she hadn’t met the Doctor’s tenth regeneration, his previous one, before the Valiant. Or at least, he’d suggested as much. Perhaps he just hadn’t made the connection about who she was, or hadn’t wanted to worry her. He couldn’t have known what was going to happen her, could he? She cocked her head to one side as the Doctor beamed characteristically, standing proud in the ensemble she remembered him favouring; pinstripes, though black this time, with a red tie. He adjusted said tie and that was when Roda blinked, the beginning of an explanation dying on her lips.

“…What did you do to your nails?”

“Like them?” The Doctor flexed one hand, his child in a candy store behaviour exaggerated to alarm-bell-ringing heights. It was the first thing he’d said. Not a hello, or surprise at seeing her. The Doctor bragged all the time but this was different. The black nail polish flashed in the glow of the streetlamps and Roda wondered what exactly had prompted him to paint his nails. It certainly wasn’t going to help him blend in on Malcassairo, no matter what he was here for. She began to realise it certainly wasn’t to help her. “Did it this morning. Little dramatic flair for the occasion.”

“The occasion?”

The Doctor smirked. The expression seemed more at home on the Master’s face than on his. “Do I need an occasion to look snazzy?”

“You…” Roda reached to her side, throwing up the Teselecta’s built-in genetic scanner and covering up the motion of the machine’s arm by rubbing the back of her head. Her free hand strayed to the grip of her pistol and the body did so too, whether there was one there or not. “You said ‘for the occasion’.”

“Carpe diem.” The Doctor shrugged. “I’m pushing nine hundred, must be getting eccentric in my old age.”

Roda hummed a noise that approached disapproval while she waited for the scan to complete. A second later, ‘Time Lord’ flashed across the Teselecta’s monitors, briefly masking her view of the Doctor through the sensitive cameras. “And here you told me off when I dyed my hair pink…”

“Well, that was different.” The Doctor grinned as he reached for Roda’s hand. She let him take it absently, hoping that she was just being paranoid. His grin widened to more Cheshire lengths as he started to pull Roda back the way she had came, along the transect she had been pacing past the liquor store for hours. “Did you know you’re being followed?” Roda waved her free hand non-committally. “Allons-y, Redjay. There’s an off-license two doors down we can hide in.”

Roda could no longer deny the raising of her hackles. The Teselecta’s heels ground into the pavement and the Time Lady shook her head, forcing the Doctor to stop just inches from the shop door. Her eyes had gone wide, the Teselecta’s too, and the Doctor – if it was the Doctor – nearly bared his teeth, just catching himself. No one liked to be interrupted but this was something else. Spirits falling, Roda tore her hand free and forced a neutral tone into her voice even as she wanted to rip the microphone from her ear and abort the plan here and now. The Doctor could kill her another day.

"It’s not supposed to be you.”

"Well,” The Doctor recovered his nerve as well, his smile returning. He stepped closer, driving Roda nearer to the lettering etched onto the glass window. “Carpe diem and all that.” The time for trickery was clearly past, so though the villain. Roda tried not to think of him as Doctor. This couldn’t be the Doctor. “The laws of time aren't yours you know."

"No, Doctor, I mean, whoever you are…” The Doctor smirked, and Roda cleared her throat, pinching between her thumb and forefinger for focus. “Your timeline This didn’t-"

"Oh I stopped caring a long time ago. Now. Come here.”

“And why the Skaro am I going to do that?”

When the Doctor only laughed, Roda stepped backwards, the Teselecta’s heels brushing up against the threshold of the door. She swallowed inside the machine, lifting her chin, questioning Alex’s plan for the first time and wondering if she shouldn’t just cut her ties and run. Her android double mimicked her movements, Alex’s system working with perhaps too much lifelikeness. Roda was certain she’d have fooled even herself, watching the screens around her and wishing for peripheral vision. As the realisation of what was really going on began to dawn, she began to wish she’d taken someone else along with her after all.

This wasn’t the Doctor. Or at least, this wasn’t her Doctor. Not that she’d known his last regeneration overly well, but this wasn’t the man she’d met all teeth and scarf and hair or the man with the bowties and frantic clumsy hand gestures. This wasn’t, fundamentally, the man who the Doctor was across his regenerations in the same way that the Master remained a megalomaniac grudge-holding bastard and Roda remained stubbornly obsessed with upholding the standards of Robin Hood and his men. Roda stepped away from the console, shocked, and was relieved a second later to find that the Teselecta had realised the motion was unconscious and not copied it through the artificial synapses. She forced herself back into the chair, keeping an eye on the gauges and flashing lights and buttons. Roda had never been any good at science, and she hadn’t expected to have to fool a friend. 

She wanted to ask whoever wore the Doctor’s body what was going on; she wanted to believe that he wasn’t the killer who might have been wearing pinstripe – how had she missed that clue before? – that wanted her dead, and got what he wanted. But she didn’t. And from the look on his face, the cruel, distant smile curling his lips as his laughter died down and he stepped close to her, his breath on her face and his hands almost intimately pinned over her in the doorway, he’d worked out why she hadn’t as well. Roda’s mind scrambled – how had so many witnesses thought she was happy to be here? Had they thought them lovers? – as she looked up at a man who she had met once before, wearing a different face.

Roda went pale and her eyes widened. It couldn’t be him… And he couldn’t be the murderer… Could he?

“You’re not the Doctor.”

“Am I not?” The Valeyard ran his hands across his blue pinstriped lapels, picking up the red tie that hung loosely around his neck and running his tongue slowly and pointedly across his front teeth. His hands left the wall to run through the mess at hair on his brow, mussing it even more than usual before he tipped his head onto one side, feigning confusion. “But if it looks like a Doctor and sounds like a Doctor-“

“It doesn’t sound like a Doctor.”

“Well, might have to work on that, eh? Now.”

The Valeyard waved one hand at the door that Roda was leaned against. He’d pulled a key from seemingly nowhere – Roda wondered if he’d had it hidden behind his ear – and reached mockingly for her hand, like he might have done when he was truly himself, excited to show her something. Roda jumped and so did the android.

“Let me guess.” Roda swallowed again, talking into the microphone hooked around one of her ears. “Allons-y?”

The Valeyard beamed. “You know him so well!”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t know you at all.”

“Well we’ve only met once. And it’s not as though you have to, Rodageitmososa.”

Roda’s hiss was feral. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“My mistake.” The Valeyard leered, stroking her jaw and nodding even more insistently at the door. “Thought you might like a little nostalgic trip before you die.”

She faked innocence with difficulty, not even having to force the Teselecta to breathe heavily, erratically. If it had been a stranger, Roda was sure she could have been cool, calm. Even if it was the Master who killed her she could have lied, just to spite him, or monologued for the same reason. But the Valeyard… he shouldn’t have even been here. She’d had no idea just how bad that scent of ‘very wrong’ on the air would be. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t think I could just let you live, did you?” Roda finally stepped into the liquor store. The Valeyard shut the door too-quietly behind her. “Not now that I’ve seen the light.”

“Come on.” Roda wrinkled her nose and fell into the security blanket of sarcasm. She couldn’t remember anything she’d been told about the Valeyard, after the Doctor’s trial. She’d never thought it would be important. “Clichés?”

“I told you. The laws of time are mine, but so long as there’s competition…” The Valeyard turned his back on Roda, who instinctively dove for the door, rattling the handle. No luck; he slung one hand over his shoulder with a low chuckle, the key dangling from his fingers. Looking around her for a weapon, trying to work out how to send an SOS from inside the Teselecta, Roda only absently noticed how intently the Valeyard was studying the various bottles of alcohol on the shelf, some cheap and some priceless. “They won’t obey me.”

“I don’t want the laws of time.”

“So you say.” The Valeyard growled, wrapping slim, sinister fingers around the neck of the nearest attractive-looking bottle. “Until you see what I’ve seen-“

“What?”

“And then you’ll want them all.” The Valeyard ignored her and pulled another, square bottle from the shelf above the first. Flashes of the broken glass she’d seen in the police records came unbidden to the front of Roda’s mind, and the Teselecta shuddered for her. “The Master already does. And he intends his son to inherit them. But I won’t let that happen.”

“Bastard…!” Roda finally lost her cool. Her own murder, or not if Alex’s plan worked, that, she could more or less handle. But she, Alex, Jack… no one was expecting her murderer to come after Alex. Roda could barely find it in herself to care if he came after the Master but she supposed he deserved a warning about this, too. After all, were it not for him, the Valeyard would have defeated the Doctor the first time. Something had to be done and if the Doctor regenerated into his new, younger body that Roda had seen and touched with her own hands and eyes then somehow, it would be done. The Valeyard could be beaten again. “You won’t touch him… He’s just a Tot.”

“He’d hate it if he heard you say that…” The Valeyard weighed up the bottles in each hand before throwing them to the ground, selecting an even heavier, more cylindrical one from another shelf. Roda winced. “And who’s going to warn them? You should be grateful; this way, you won’t have to watch our race die a second time.”

“You’re worse than the Master.”

“I am a God!” The Valeyard pouted. “The Master just wants to be one.”

Roda stepped towards the opposite shelf and reached for a bottle of her own. She hated to do this to the Doctor/Valeyard but there was no way she was going down without a fight… Perhaps she could take the Valeyard down with her and get back here quick enough to cut him off before he left the Conglomeration.

“Can’t you see? This will make you just like him.”

“No.” The Valeyard snapped. “This will make me better.”

The fight began with no further drama or discussion. Both Time Lords sunk into silence, Roda willing the security system that her intel knew would fail her to work as she struggled to get the Teselecta to keep up with the fight as much as she would have. It was difficult to swing a bottle that you weren’t holding, and the first time she tried, Roda clenched her fist so tightly that she filled her own palm with splinters of glass. Her blows landed eventually – a keen fighter’s instinct winning over ineptitude for technology – but the Valeyard was bigger, stronger, and driven by something apparently stronger than a sense for survival. It occurred to Roda briefly that perhaps she had too much faith in Alex’s creations; why fear death, and fight to your full potential to avoid it, if it was theoretically near impossible?

Eventually, the Valeyard had Roda on her knees. Not a feat many could boast. Even the Teselecta didn’t have enough strength to push his knee out of the small of its back as Roda’s fabricated body crouched in the puddle of shattered glass and blood, both its and her enemy’s. Her heart was racing, and the inside of the Teselecta was flashing a clear, warning red, informing her that on no uncertain terms were things going well. Roda clenched her eyes tightly shut, the noise only serving to heighten the claustrophobia she had kept at bay throughout the whole night, the whole fight.

She wasn’t on her knees long; the Valeyard pushed her down, and Roda turned instinctively to land on her back, ready to spring back to her feet if she wasn’t supposed to be feigning near lethal injury. The last stab of the Valeyard’s ‘knife’ had gone through her back to one heart. Or rather, one android replica. Roda had stumbled in shock, gasping out loud. Though she didn’t have a single wound on her own body, Roda still felt as though she’d taken every single one that the machine had. This felt like a real regeneration, a real death. She wasn’t scared anymore, only angry.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

“Th– then…“

Roda coughed, lifting a hand in front of her face curiously, and the inside of the Teselecta sparked, still struggling to keep up with ‘reality’. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths within the machine and trying to steady herself. She had to focus, had to make sure that so far as the Valeyard was concerned, he would succeed in killing her in a few seconds. The pain was easy to ignore… It was only phantoms, after all, entirely in her mind. The slightly malfunctioning machine was less easy, and Roda began to find it difficult to find the right triggers for a regeneration sequence and focus on what the Valeyard was saying at the same time.

“…Fucking don’t.”

The Valeyard pursed his lips, tapping his bottom lip with his thumb nail before shaking his head and passing the broken bottle to his other hand. He was done showing off then, it seemed. The ‘god’ was ready… Roda half expected a ‘thy will be done’.

The Teselecta started to glow an obedient orange as Roda let out a sharp breath, the pseudo-regenerative wisp condensing in the air, and she dropped her hand to the ground with mixed feelings of triumph and disappointment. “Sorry. Not on the cards.” Roda snorted. “Any last words?”

“Mine or yours?”

“Oh, mine are a long time coming.”

The Valeyard grinned and for just a second, resembled the Doctor that Roda knew. She growled, and misreading the gesture the Valeyard tsked, feigning wiping a tear from his eye. He raised the broken bottle over his head and closed one eye, lining up his aim with the second of Roda’s hearts, a patch of chest not already lacerated with scratches. Roda couldn’t help but close her eyes, disconnecting from the Teselecta as it began to regenerate and leaving it to its pre-programmed auto-pilot. She knew what happened next; she didn’t need to see it.

“Don’t worry… This won’t hurt a bit.”


	12. Chapter 12

Without any question, Alex’s planet was the first place Roda went after being killed.

It wasn’t that she didn’t think he could look after himself. In fact, in recent months – for her – he’d grown up faster than she could have thought possible of the little boy she’d first met, even if he was a Time Lord. But the Valeyard had been clear, if cryptic; if he wanted to be the last of the Time Lords then he would attack the weakest links first. Expose wounds in both the Doctor and the Master that he could exploit to his advantage. He’d made it quite clear that he would go after Alex. And after everything he’d done to help her, well, not be dead, Roda owed him advanced warning anyway.

She wanted to return the Teselecta to Alex as well (stealing her ‘corpse’ from the morgue, a couple of years after the crime had taken place, had been ludicrously easy). If it could be recoded to resemble something else then after this experience she wanted nothing more to do with it. She felt dirty, and drained of energy. It might not have killed her outright but it had been unnatural and terrifying, and when she had to stay in the wreckage and broken glass until the coast was clear it had become claustrophobic. Roda had stumbled, limbs shaking, back to the TARDIS and curled up in a ball for a couple of hours. She’d considered calling Jack for a bit of comfort but decided against it; she didn’t want to talk about it until she had to.

Alex for his part didn’t seem entirely surprised to see her. Roda wondered if there’d been some kind of tracking device in the Teselecta but shook it off. It didn’t really matter. Without saying a word he ushered her back into the kitchen, handed her a cup of tea, and assumed that everything had gone well. When she’d felt more like herself Roda had explained who the Valeyard was and why Alex should just keep his head down and stay somewhere safe. The Valeyard was from an early enough timeline that he probably didn’t know about the Seeker’s planet.

Always the pragmatist Alex had agreed, but also insisted that Roda warn the Master too. It was probably easy enough to read her reluctance on the matter, but even she had to admit that she didn’t want the bastard dead. The Doctor couldn’t know, of course, it was just too complicated… So it was Roda’s grudging responsibility to tell the Master to watch her back. She almost asked to borrow the Teselecta one more time just in case he tried to kill her by way of gratitude. When she couldn’t kill any more time, she thanked Alex for the tea and bit the bullet.

There were places Roda had never hoped to visit, and the Saxon’s London Townhouse was one of them. It wasn’t that it was an unpleasant place; under any other circumstances, if she hadn’t promised Jack to toe the line at least while she’s working for Torchwood, it might have been the kind of place she’d break into for the sake of the ‘poor’. The problem was that it felt like walking into a bear trap with your hands tied behind your back. Serving herself up to someone who would probably kill her quite happily with a little ribbon wrapped around her neck. Suicidal. At least, she reasoned, if she went somewhere public killing her would be considerably more difficult.

Lucy Saxon opened the door within a few knocks. No servants for the Coles and the Saxons, it seemed. Roda had half expected some enslaved alien race in a French maid outfit. She shook her head, nose wrinkled. Peeking through the spy-hole, Lucy opened the door with the chain still cut across, just wide enough to turn up her nose at the bundled-up-in-civilian-clothes Time Lady hovering half-nervously on the doorstep.

“I’m sorry. I don’t allow just any old riff-raff in my house.”

Roda narrowed her eyes. “I’m not here to play games, bitch.” Roda clasped one forearm tightly behind her back, doing her best to keep her temper. She and the Master were on some of the worst terms but at least Roda had some patience for him. His seemingly brainwashed wife, on the other hand… Not so much. She couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to marry a psychopath, let alone have a child with him. “I’m here to talk to the Master.”

“He’s not in.”

“And I’m not an idiot. Look, I don’t like this either but you’re both in danger.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.” Lucy sniffed, starting to shut the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re very bus-“

“Come now Lucy, is that any way to treat our breakfast guest?”

Roda folded her arms in front of her chest and tapped her foot on the doorstep. She’d known that the Master was going to make things difficult but she’d hoped he’d have the intelligence to work out that if she was going out on a limb, she had something important to say. Or perhaps he had. After all, he’d simply taken the door off the chain and stood on the mat with one arm slung lavishly around his wife’s waist without pointing a laser screwdriver or a TCE her way. Of course, there could have been an invisible wall-mounted laser somewhere… Or Roda could have just been paranoid.

“I’m not here to play games.”

“And here I thought you’d finally taken me up on the offer of waffles.” Roda blinked and the Master sighed, pressing his fingertips to his temple before ushering her into the hall. “That hasn’t happened yet?”

Roda followed the proffered arm tentatively, shaking her head. “No, it’s happened. Jack wasn’t impressed.”

“With you or me?”

“Either.” Roda let her stance turn defensive, legs coiled and ready to spring, her chin raised rebelliously. “I’m not here for a fight.”

“Clearly. You’re not armed and it’s not even breakfast yet.” The Master smirked. “So what, pray tell, are you here for? Other than insulting my wife,” He tightened his grip on Lucy’s waist, “And making a mess?”

“I’m making a mess? You knocked over the tins.”

“Are we back on the subject of waffles again?”

“No.” Roda sighed, and ran a hand through her hair, allowing herself to be slowly shepherded through to what appeared to be an overly large, wooden-panelled kitchen. “I’ve come here to warn you, but…”

“But?” The Master raised an eyebrow, amused. “Speechless in awe again, I see.”

“F-“

“Lucy, be a dear and turn on the coffee machine? Some waffles would go down nicely too.” Roda paused and took a deep breath, resting her palms on the large circular table and making a show of not yet sitting down. “Just why are you warning me?”

“Because I promised Alex.”

Clearly amused by the answer, the Master watched Roda with a sneer while Lucy shot daggers across the room before turning to the many cupboards, apparently less inclined to trust Roda than even the Master was. The thought made Roda a little more cheerful and she pushed her hair behind her ear, perking up already. The Master on the other hand took on a petulant expression to see Roda relaxing, and made it sound like it was his suggestion.

“Please, make yourself at home. The Master’s casa should be the slave’s casa.”

“You really can’t help yourself.”

“And you enjoy pointing out my flaws.” The Master lowered his tone of voice, almost hissing as he took an opposite seat and leaned into the table. “Why are you here?”

“You remember the Valeyard.” Roda didn’t waste any more time, and forced herself not to count the Master’s shocked expression as a victory. “Naturally.”

“Naturally.”

The Master had gritted his teeth already, his cool lost far more quickly than the norm. The coffee maker hissed behind them as the two Time Lords stared each other down, more annoyed by the fact that they were working together than by the other’s presence. The Master’s knuckles had gone white, his hands clasped tightly together and a steely, business meant expression was on his face. The Master’s eyes were dark and Roda quickly continued the conversation before he took out his apparent hatred of the bastard on somebody more conveniently placed.

“Long story short? He’s ba-“ One plate of waffles was placed gently in front of the Master, and a second was half-tossed across the table at Roda. She blinked, shook her head, and forced a smile onto her face. “Thank you Mrs Saxon. As I was saying…”

For once, the Master kept his mouth shut and listened to what Roda had t say without interrupting. His expression clouded over a few times, his wife clasping one hand to his shoulder supportively, and his face broke into a wide grin as Roda covered the details about her ‘fake death’.

“Go figure.” He snorted, licking syrup from the side of his lips. Roda, pointedly, hadn’t touched hers, and was somewhat surprised Lucy hadn’t snatched it back out of spite. She’d only stirred her coffee several times as well, not yet bringing it to her lips and using the story as a subtle excuse. “I try to kill you all these years, and finally it’s the Doctor who does it.”

Roda’s eyes narrowed, but she smiled too, tapping the teaspoon against the edge of her mug before using it to gesture vaguely in the Master’s direction. She met his gaze and for a second, their eyes both glinted, enjoying the open challenge as much as they wanted to end the parlay. 

“He didn’t actually kill me.” She waggled her fingers, “One corporeal Time Lady, hello.

“Oh but he could have.”The Master leaned in, gesturing similarly with his fork before popping another piece of waffle into his mouth. It took some of the threat away, somehow, but his mouth was still set cruelly. “And you have my progeny to grovel in front of and thank for it.” Again, Roda snorted disdainfully. “How does that feel, hmm?”

“He’s not you.” Roda smirked. “And he’s not one of your pawns.” Or at least, she thought to herself, prodding the ignored waffle once more, he shouldn’t be. “And do you want my warning or not?” 

“Why didn’t the Doctor tell us all this?”

Roda raises an eyebrow, surprised that Lucy was the one to pose the question. “He can’t. I haven’t told him yet.”

“And she can’t.” The Master finished, pouting. “One or two problems with paradoxes, darling, might blow up this little universe I’ve been working so hard to take over.” The Master lined his knife up on his plate, licking up the last of his syrup with one finger before pointing his fork at Roda’s food. “If you don’t want that…”

“I assumed it was poisoned.”

“Suit yourself.” With a proud chuckle he leaned over, digging into Roda’s waffle with a satisfied hum. Roda watched him eat for a few seconds, ignoring the grumbling in her stomach – apparently escaping death was hungry work – before pushing herself to her feet and nodding once. The Master looked up slowly. “Leaving so soon?”

“People to see, painful deaths to avoid.” Roda shrugged her coat back over her shoulders, keeping her back pointedly to the door until she noticed something red sitting on the windowsill beside a tired-looking spider plant. She folded her arms despite herself. “Unless you’re planning on giving me back the feathers you’ve stolen over the years.”

“Oh, but I do like my souvenirs…! However.” The Master was on his feet in seconds, pecking his wife – who sighed and then stormed back to the waffle machine – on the cheek quickly before wrapping his arm around Roda’s shoulders. Without time to jump out of the way Roda half-stepped back through the kitchen door, eyeing the front door warily. The Master followed her gaze and, adjusting his tie, began to walk her back down the slim, dark corridor, whispering low and clear. “I do believe I owe you a favour.”

Roda slipped out of the Master’s grip and through the newly opened front door, putting her hands on the hips. “Why do I get the feeling I shouldn’t be grateful?”

“Ye of little faith.”

The Master smirked, but offered no other words of reassurance, shutting the door behind him as he turned away. Roda watched the door for a few seconds longer before breaking into a jog back to her TARDIS.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you get to meet my Torchwood team :D

“…And you’re just sharing Time Lord secrets with us?”

Roda had never been what you might call a team player. She was capable of working as a team player, for short periods of time, and loyal to a fault where friends were concerned. Robin Hood she saw as an idol, a leader and a friend and would follow to the ends of the universe and back. Jack she did her best to see as a boss but the sex kind of got in the way of that (which wasn’t to mean she didn’t respect him too). She loved her job. Torchwood was both growing on her, and good for her, even if Torchwood One had - before it's destruction - turned up more often than she would like looking for excuses to take her off the payroll and put her under the knife. Michael was lucky he'd joined up after that mess.

“It’s not Time Lord secrets, Ianto, it’s just… Trouble.”

“Isn’t your species always?”

The issue came with sharing her problems with people, and reporting them when they were a danger to others. Roda liked to deal with problems on her own but as Jack had pointed out when they got back from Alex’s planet, if she’d not accepted help earlier on in this trouble then she wouldn’t be here to ask for it now. Jack had called an emergency meeting, paging everyone in at the crack of dawn to let Roda explain who the Valeyard was and why he was very, very bad news. 

“At least I’m not green.”

Jack smacked Roda lightly across the back of the head while Michael glowered.

“Roda, be nice. Green is sexy.”

Michael was the only one of the team other than Jack who seemed to understand Roda’s urgency but then the silurians had always known the dangers of meddling in the affairs of Time Lords. He’d taken a long time to warm to Roda’s role in the team even though she had been there longer, and had argued with Jack for hours to let him step in to fill the hole Owen’s death had left behind. Ianto’s doubts weren’t unfounded, though; he knew it took something important for Roda to share her secrets with anyone but Jack.

Gwen was only half listening, monitoring the rising beeping coming from the rift monitor in the corner, and Rhys was nursing a cup of coffee in one hand and the baby on his other hip muttering darkly about how it wasn’t morning until the sun was up. Roda was sat on the gurney while Rita checked her over – insistently – for any signs of trauma or injury, simply listening in on the conversation. She was Torchwood’s only non-field agent, taking over from Tosh after the Doctor had turned up with the claim that she was supposed to be dead and couldn’t go home and could Torchwood use a medic.

Roda sighed, rolling up her sleeve to let Rita take a blood sample and accepting a cup of coffee finally held out to her by Ianto. She took a long sip of the scalding drink before continuing, not meeting anyone’s eyes but instead talking at a bare patch of whitewashed wall in front of her. 

“I’m more scared of the Valeyard than I am of the Master.” She shrugged, going for nonchalance and failing just short. Jack put his hand on her shoulder. “Heck, the Master is scared of him, too. And that, never mind the fact that he’s a walking paradox with murderous intentions, makes him a threat we need to monitor.”

“Which is why Roda’s sleeping here for a couple of weeks.” Ianto raised an eyebrow, questioning Jack’s out of the blue statement that Roda was sleeping at their house. Jack smiled, apologetic. “So long as the Valeyard thinks she’s dead, he won’t come after her again, and the only way to make sure he becomes the Doctor again is to do nothing – else,” He glanced at Roda, “To change the timeline.”

“Like I said.” Michael snorted, though his tone was warming again; he was never one to worry, though he’d been living amongst humans for over a hundred years and behaved more like them than most silurians did. Even if he did hate loud noises, drills, or anything that reminded him of his early wake-up call from hibernation. “Time Lords are trouble.”

Jack smirked fatedly. “Trouble we can avoid if we just-“

“Weevils!”

Roda, Jack, Ianto, Michael and Rita all looked up in unison as Gwen shouted and Rhys started to swear. Jack was the first to move, running across the Hub to join Gwen, peering over the screen with a worried frown on his face and barking out orders.

“Weevils in the middle of town, near one of the nightclubs. It’ll be swarming with people. Roda, take the baby.” Flustered, and still not overly fond of the boss, Rhys handed Arwen over to Roda’s open arms without further ado. He might not have liked Jack but Roda babysat almost on a weekly basis, and the baby stretched out balled fists to her with a smile. Glad to be off the hook for an hour or so, Roda tapped her nose and started to babble fondly in ‘baby’. “Rhys, you’re driving. Rita, be on alert, there’s a lot of weevils. Everyone else SUV, now!”

Jack jogged past Roda on the way to stairs and paused to crouch over her, winking flirtatiously. Roda raised an eyebrow, feigning mock disappointment.

“Am I missing out on all the fun?”

“Don’t worry Ro-Ro. I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

“Won’t Janet be jealous?”

“Nah,” Ianto rolled his eyes, pulling on a coat and pulling Jack towards the door with a gun in his hands, “She wants me to have fun with other weevils too.” He paused, lowering his voice. “We’ll talk about this later, alright? You’re okay on your own?”

“Jack, I’m a big girl. No Valeyards or malmooth here. Besides,” Roda grinned, bouncing her knee. “I’ve got Arwen to protect me.”

Jack winked once more before returning to boss mode, slamming the door behind him and charging up the stairs. Roda watched them go, slid the baby onto her hip and crossed over to the monitors, hacking the CCTV up and settling onto a table top with her coffee. Back to normal, then. Weevils, coffee, baby-sitting, no one trying to kill her. A strange, but pleasant kind of normal. She just hoped it would last this time. She’d had quite enough surprises to last her a year.

What next? Sleeping with the Master?


	14. Chapter 14

The Doctor wasn’t made to be on his own. Roda had known that for a while. The problem was that he hadn’t seemed to have worked it out himself yet, no matter how often anybody told him so. Left to his own devices all the old wounds in his heart festered. Memories of companions been and gone. Memories of adventures never to be had again. Memories of his own victories and failings. It would be enough to drive the best men mad, and the Doctor was, in fact, one of the best men.

Roda hadn’t had any communication with the Doctor between the Year That Never Was and his eleventh face, but something had happened for the Valeyard to materialise in that break… She felt she’d let him down by not realising it sooner, focusing on her own angst in that year and not thinking about how he must have felt. It was a negligence she had to correct, which was why a few days after what Jack had dubbed ‘the night of the disco weevils’ Roda tracked down the Doctor on the planet Mars.

The Doctor stared at Roda as though she had two heads when he opened the door, brainy specs falling off his nose, to find her standing in the moon dust in front of the TARDIS.

“…How are you breathing?”

Roda blinked, shaking her head both sadly and fondly. Of all the things that she’d expected the Doctor to say by way of greeting…

“The atmosphere fields of our TARDIS’ are overlapping.” She motioned absently, pulling the tall, spindly brunette into a hug before he could argue and holding him tight against her chest. “Shut up and come here.”

The Doctor froze in shock, or mistrust. Roda only squeezed tighter, fighting back tears of irritation that she couldn’t do anything to change the fixed point that the Doctor was about to become. Damn time, and damn the Valeyard. A few seconds passed before the Doctor clumsily lifted his arms, patting her shoulders awkwardly. When Roda showed no sign of letting go he finally wrapped his arms around her as well and pulled her close, already beginning to ramble on with a pained, apologetic tone of voice.

“Roda, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. The Master, the Valiant, I-“

“Shut up.” Roda squeezed the Doctor one more time before pulling back, looking him up and down with a fond smile and wet eyes. “…We don’t really know each other in these bodies, do we?”

When the Doctor laughed it was obviously forced, but… hopeful? He ran one long-fingered hand through his messy hair, cocking his head to one side and pulling a face. “Well, that’s a bit forward isn’t it? I’ve not seen you in months and here you turn up, trying to hug me to death and telling me to take my clothes off.”

Roda almost blushed. She might have been attracted to this regeneration of the Doctor’s, but that was before the face trying to smile down at her now had been stolen by a would-be murderous madman. It was all she could do to remind herself that she was here to offer some moment of care to a friend in his time of need, not to prevent an inevitability. She already knew that it wouldn’t be easy to see him again, in this body. The timelines not withstanding she wasn’t even sure she had the gall for it.

“Not like that. I mean,” She shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck, “Jack would be jealous for one thing.”

“Well, allons-y.” The Doctor smoothed down his lapels and made for the centre of the console, already reaching for knobs and levers. “We could go pick him up if you want.”

“Doctor.”

The Doctor ignored Roda as she followed him into the TARDIS, sighing and all but wringing her hands.

“Ooh, we could even go pick up Alonso. Allons-y Alonso. Jack would love him.”

Roda raised her voice, even raising her hand to try and get his attention.

“Doctor.”

“Maybe even-“

“Doctor!” Roda finally snapped, not cruelly but impatiently, a stern expression on her face that melted into guilt when the Doctor turned to stare at her, a kicked puppy dog look in her eyes. It was almost as if he blamed himself… what had happened to him? Or more likely for the Doctor, who? She stepped up to him, on tiptoes, cupping his cheek in one hand and resting her forehead gently against his. Her tone of voice lowered to a hum, the tone she would use to sing a lullaby to a sad child which right now, the Doctor seemed to be. A sad and lonely child a long way from home. “…Sorry.”

“Nah, s’alright. You know me, always going on and on, leaping before I think, see! That’s me off again.” The Doctor paused and cleared his throat, withdrawing from Roda’s quasi embrace with falling features. “You’re… not staying, are you?”

Roda shook her head. “Doctor…” She touched the bridge of her nose, and rocked on her heels, watching him acutely. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” The Doctor forced a smile again, shrugging nonchalantly and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m always okay. Never better. Just me and the old girl seeing the universe a bit. Thought I might go to Barcelona.”

For a long time both Time Lords just watched each other. Just as the Doctor opened his mouth to ask another question Roda stepped up on tiptoes once more, kissing him on the forehead and pulling him once more into a tight hug, her arms around his neck and shoulder and her face buried in his shoulder. The Doctor was quicker to hold her close this time, his franticness to wrap his arms around her almost panicked. She squeezed tight, listening to his hearts, before pulling back and planting one more kiss on his forehead and stepping back to appraise him.

“…You know where I am, Doctor.” Roda was hesitant, feeling trapped by the fact that she couldn’t change a Skaro-damned thing. Couldn’t help the Doctor at all. “If you need anything. Just remember we love you.”

“We?”

The Doctor blinked, confused.

“Goodbye, Doctor.”

Roda left before either of them could say anything else. But when she reached her own TARDIS, shutting the door behind her and making for the console, she came face to face with the Doctor once more, arms folded sadly across his chest.

His bowtie was askew, and his expression even sterner than hers had been. Roda scowled back, put off by his sudden appearance, and plugged in the coordinates to return to the vortex before rounding on the Doctor ask him just what the Skaro he thought he was doing. The Doctor beat her to it, his expression strangely soft and unsure. A mirror of Roda’s when she had faced his younger self five minutes ago.

“Roda… Are you okay?”

Roda ignored the question with all but a dismissive way of her hand, busying herself with the TARDIS controls. She could play her emotions closer to her chest than the Doctor ever did. Her girl purred comfortingly, and Roda placed her bare palm down on the glass with another sigh. The Doctor hummed and hawed, unimpressed with the answer, and followed Roda around the console to lean on the other side casually and watch her as she worked, silent and unmoving. Finally, Roda found the courage to talk again, locking the memories of the broken Doctor away in a part of her mind where she never had to worry about him again.

“…How’s Mowgli?”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, but he knew better than to try and steer the conversation back to where he wanted it to be when Roda was in a stubborn mood. She couldn’t talk about what she had been up to on Mars whether she wanted to or not, and from the look on his face, studying hers, he seemed to know it. And so instead of persisting he straightened himself and his bowtie, puffing out his chest proudly.

“Settling in away from jungle.” Roda smiled, glad that at least something in the whole sorry Malcassairo affair had worked out well enough. She was glad to have guessed his timeline right, too; it only occurred to her after she’d spoken that this could have been an earlier Doctor, from before the slave boy on Malcassairo and the chameleon arched corpse signed off to the Shadow Proclamation. “Legally registered him as my nephew to cut the red tape. Think River might be a little surprised since Brax never had any kids but all’s well that ends well.”

Roda laughed, sitting down on the edge of the console and vaguely offering the Doctor the captain’s chair. He took it clumsily, as he always did, like a giraffe trying to sit down, and crossed one leg over the other as though nothing amusing had happened at all. Roda deleted her last destination in her records while he was busy, and then gave him her undivided, sociable attention.

“Who’s the unlucky sap you listed as his mother?”

There was a pause, before the Doctor rubbed his hands together with a sort of glee, then spread them open in Roda’s direction with a proud smile. “Congratulations, it’s a boy!” Roda’s jaw all but dropped to the ground. Her? Her? He’d listed her as Mowgli’s moth… Roda grasped the edge of the console, desperately maintaining her balance before she fell over in shock. The Doctor hadn’t seemed to notice. “And now you have in-laws. And a brother.” Roda gave up her argument before it even started. The Doctor, her brother. And her, legally the mother of a child… “So, good luck with Amy.”

Roda blinked again. “…G-good luck with what?”

“Amy. She’ll try and get Rory to bake a cake again. Trust me, if you thought I was worse than everybody’s aunt!” He threw his arms up in petulant resignation, though his affection for his current companions was more than obvious. “That, or they’ll try and take Mowgli bowling, son-in-law’s nephew and all. Bad, bowling. I don’t like it and neither will he.” Roda guessed there was a story in there, but maybe it was one for another day. “Good kid, Mowgli.”

“You…” Roda windmilled with her hands. “You actually listed his name as Mowgli?”

“Well his mother wasn’t there to correct me.”

Roda shook her head fondly, not sure what to say. From one Doctor, sad and broken, to another so bright and full of potential in comparison. At least it meant he was going to get better. That was enough for Roda. But this? The weight of it was immense… There was so much to think about, and to keep secret. The TARDIS was not a safe place for a child.

“He’s in a home on Malcassairo?”

The Doctor nodded. “Food, board and education paid up front for the next ten years. They may or may not think he’s the bastard, much-loved child of an eccentric heiress…” Roda rolled her eyes. “He’s not up for adoption because his mother is living, but if you want to visit him – not that you have to!” The Doctor threw up his hands in surrender. “But if you want to, you’ll have to pass a psych evaluation and a background check.”

Roda ran a hand across her face. “Psychic paper, then?”

“Psychic paper.”

Roda shook her head again, this time with a broad grin. “Doctor?”

“…Yes?”

What was she going to say? Admonish him? Thank him? In the end, Roda settled on stepping in to hug her second Doctor of the day, never mind the potential paradoxes, and murmured into the tweed. “…Nothing.”

“You, not-Pond, are a funny sort.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Hmm.”

The Doctor glanced at an empty wrist in place of a watch before standing up just in time for Roda’s TARDIS to whirr and clunk during landing. He glanced at the door then back at Roda, who crossed her arms across her chest once more and raised an eyebrow.

“Anyway, were you spying on me?”

The Doctor denied with only a slight smile, then wagged his finger in Roda’s face, his voice stern. “You know I’m pretty certain that half an hour ago we hadn’t met between the Valiant and Salen…”

“Well you know how time is.” Roda shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait. “Big ball of… How did you put it?”

“Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff.”

“Exactly.” Roda took a deep breath and opened the TARDIS door to the scene of the Ponds’ front door. She might not have known the tenth Doctor well, but she knew the eleventh much better. “Spoilers, Doctor.”

“You know I really hate it when women say that to me…”

“That’s not what River said.” Roda winked, leaning on the doorframe and watching the Doctor as he ambled out, and the Ponds ambled out to meet him. The look of confusion on their faces as an unfamiliar TARDIS landed just an inch from the roses was undeniable. The Doctor turned to wave, and Roda waved back. She was just about to shut the TARDIS door when a thought came to her, and she stuck her head out the door once more to yell one more question at the Doctor’s retreating back.

“By the way, do you still hate carrot juice?”


End file.
